Out of the Flames
by PhoenixTwins
Summary: *HIATUS - HIGH POSSIBILITY OF BEING ABANDONED* Of pain and love and hope and healing. This is a story of survival. "From the embers healing was found. A spark was ignited and love was born. Out of the flames redemption was won". GW/HG. DM/HG. Post-War AU. EWE. HEA.
1. Chapter 1

**RATED M:** for adult language, sexual situations, and violence.

 **WARNING:** Please be aware of the darkish/angsty nature of this story. We are dealing with a post-war world, and the Death Eaters we will encounter bring with them unsavory topics which can sometimes be triggering to readers. _Out of the Flames_ might have murder, death of major canon characters, torture, discussions of previous suicide attempts, brief allusions to rape/attempted rape, drug abuse/addiction, birth trauma, and general Death Eater drama. These topics will be handled with sensitivity and will not be overly detailed or gratuitous. This will be your only warning.

 **DISCLAIMER:** We do not own Harry Potter. We bow down to kiss the robes of J.K. Rowling for loaning us her characters in this tale of a Dramione romance, but she holds the copyright, and we do not profit off of this story in any way. Any Harry Potter themes, elements, or characters that are recognizable to the reader are JKR's alone.

 **THANKS:** This story would not be possible without the incredible team of people who support us and push us to make this story something excellent. Each of these women have helped in various ways, including alpha reading, beta reading and editing, creating aesthetics and art, Brit picking, promoting and recommending, and generally keeping us going when we have felt unable to do our ideas justice. We are forever indebted to you!  goldensnitch18, olivieblake, thewaterfalcon, I was BOTWP, Clairebellaou, ErisAceso. SO MUCH LOVE.

We are also so thankful for the supportive and encouraging community of fanfiction friends we have met online; without them, we would not be writing this together! If you are also looking for such type of community please search for Home Away From Hogwarts on Facebook. We would love to have you join us!

~ Love, oblivionbaby and RooOJoy ~

* * *

 **OUT OF THE FLAMES**

 **BY PhoenixTwins**

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 **CHAPTER ONE**

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Dust, bits of shattered stone, splintered wood, broken bodies, and the horrifying smell of blood littered the cold stone floor. The Great Hall was was unrecognizable. He could hardly see through the thickness of it all. The sounds that came from every corner of the room were filled with pain and fear. Fear of dying, fear of being overcome, fear of what was next. As he watched the Dark Lord strike every man, woman, and child that came close, he found himself flooded with that same fear. Draco Malfoy didn't want to die, but he didn't want to live under this madman either.

He cowered in the corner behind an upturned bench; being wandless during this battle was a death wish, and he swore to Salazar himself to somehow get out of this alive. He wasn't sure where any of his allies were. Where were Blaise and Theo? Where did his parents go? They were all standing right next to him when Neville cut Nagini's head off, but his body moved him without recognition, and he was separated from them.

From out of the kitchens, house-elves swarmed the battle, and it became harder to hide inconspicuously along the wall as the fear of being noticed grew. He watched, somewhat disconnected, as Yaxley hit the ground, and as Macnair flew through the air hitting the stone wall with a sickening sound, blood leaking from his hairline as he slid to the floor. The Dark Lord stood in the center of the room cackling with mad glee as he battled McGonagall, Slughorn, and Kingsley.

Draco heard the unmistakable sound of fury and turned to watch as Molly Weasley thundered across the floor, panting heavily as she stormed into the duel closest to him. "NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!"

Bellatrix, his unstable aunt, was throwing curse after curse at Molly Weasley. Bellatrix's face was an easy shade of cream, showing no sign of strain and even a bit of pleasure. The light danced between the two witches as they aimed curses to maim and kill.

She taunted the Weasley matriarch. "What will happen to your children when I've killed you? When Mummy's gone the same way as Freddie?"

Draco had never seen such a change in a person before. He watched as Molly's face turned red with the effort of fighting and she swore, "You - will - never - touch - our - children - again!"

Bellatrix threw her head back in twisted delight, dark hair tumbling down her back. He watched as a curse flew straight into her chest, her head still back from her maniacal laughter, eyes widening with the realization of what her opponent had just done. She crumpled to the ground, dead. She would not be grieved by him or anyone else, and he did not feel the slightest pang of guilt over that fact.

Draco could not believe his eyes. He never thought anyone could be more terrifying or threatening than his aunt, except, of course, Lord Voldemort himself; but Molly Weasley defending her family was one to rival that title.

 _The Light was going to win this_ , he concluded to himself, hope springing up amidst the terror in him. He only needed to stay hidden and ride this out long enough to stay alive, and then he would be free. He didn't want to be in this fight; this is not what he signed up for, what felt like centuries ago, when he took that Mark. The Dark Lord was supposed to be the answer to their family's safety and restoration of their good name among purebloods. However, this battle, he was painfully aware, was suicide. _Just stay down, and you'll survive._

Time passed slowly and quickly, all at once. His thoughts of survival were the background to his quiet, and seemingly calm observation of the pandemonium ensuing around him. He should be more panicked than he was, but logic and reason don't really insert themselves into war, and Draco couldn't be bothered to remove his feet from the spot against the wall where he stood frozen. He looked to the woman who had taken down Bellatrix Lestrange and met the eyes of her daughter Ginevra Weasley; full of fire and something else he couldn't place. He noticed there was no fear in her eyes, like so many surrounding them. Their contact only lasted a second, preventing him from understanding what emotion replaced her fear. His misplaced curiosity was interrupted by a chilling shriek which shattered through the air, filling the entire room with dread, as Voldemort screamed in angst at his most loyal servant's defeat.

" _PROTEGO!_ "

Craning his neck so fast it was painful, he shifted to stare at the voice that cast a Shield Charm from the center of the room. Harry Potter was emerging from under a cloak. People all around were whispering his name, some shouting, "He's alive!" The voices were immediately stifled as Voldemort and Harry began to circle one another. Almost every scrimmage paused as the Great Hall took notice of the two enemies finally meeting. Draco watched as they conversed, his thoughts shifting in and out as he tried to focus on their words while hazily considering the implications of them. They were talking of love, and power, Dumbledore and Snape, and then of wands; the Elder Wand. _Wasn't that a child's story?_ _Are we fucking reading bedtime stories while people bleed all around us?_ Moments later, Draco unmistakably heard his name as he was torn from his rumination. "The true master of the Elder Wand _was_ Draco Malfoy."

He leaned against the stone wall as he cowered in fear, the reality of what was happening crashing in around him.

Voldemort replied to Harry's latest statement with complete confidence, "But what does it matter? Even if you are right, Potter. It makes no difference to you and me. You no longer have the phoenix wand. We duel on skill alone… and after I have killed you, I can attend to Draco Malfoy…"

Draco noticed all feeling fall from his body. His legs gave way, and he slid to his backside on the debris covered floor. _The Dark Lord will not stop till I am dead. I have to run. I have to leave._ Thoughts of survival shifted Draco's being, motivating him to flee, and he hastily scrambled to his feet. As soon as he moved to leave his hiding spot, the blazing light of the rising sun shone down through the highest windows in the Great Hall. Draco's opportunity for escape was cut off as the sun's light struck his eyes and obscured his vision, causing him to fall to the ground once more. It felt like hours, but it was probably only seconds, when he heard Voldemort's curse, and collected himself enough to see the green light head towards the Boy Who Lived. The prominent lightning bolt scar on his sweat slicked forehead was evidence of his surviving this same curse years ago. The Boy, who was now a powerful wizard in his own right, could survive again; he had to. The green light was dispersed with a golden light from Harry's wand. Their wands seemed to connect to each other, fighting for dominance over one another as if they acted with their own power. Draco was hypnotized for a breath as he watched this strange magic take place before him; it was unlike anything he had ever seen or heard of. The mingling of their magic blinded the transfixed crowd, and Draco snapped his eyes tightly shut. He could feel a distinct chill in the air despite the warmth of the sun's golden rays empowering the Hall. All sounds were stripped from the room as the weight of incredibly powerful magic trembled around them in perfect silence.

As the wand's light faded, the voices began to return around him. Whispers of, "Is he dead?" and, "No, he can't be," and, "Round them up. This doesn't end here."

Chaos broke out from the resulting duel. He watched, dumbstruck, as Death Eaters tore their masks of and began to fight in earnest. They attacked children like they would their peers, throwing Dark Curses at anyone who crossed their paths. Draco didn't know where to turn to exit the upheaval, and he frantically searched for an opening in the ferocious mob.

"Draco, run! We have to get out of here." Blaise Zabini was suddenly there pulling him by his arm towards the doors of the Great Hall. He felt the surge of people around him, some running, others fighting, most falling to their deaths. As he found himself slipping from the devastated rubble of where he used to eat meals with his classmates, he couldn't help but look back at the destruction. His eyes focused on a body in the center of the room. A head of black hair was hardly noticeable as a sobbing form draped themselves over Harry's lifeless body; her wild, golden curls splayed over Harry's face as she buried her head in his neck. He didn't have time to observe anything more as he was firmly yanked into the Entrance Hall.

Once in the Entrance Hall, they began fighting their way towards the massive oak doors. Flashes of all colors danced around them as hexes and curses were flying everywhere, rebounding off walls and Shield Charms, and then ricocheting into the crowd. Draco saw a red light heading their way from the staircase, and he pulled Blaise down to the ground just in time to have the hex hit the Slytherin hourglass causing emeralds to rain down across the floor.

"Well, well, well, who do we have here? Running away, are we boys?"

Draco and Blaise looked up into the enormous face of Rodolphus Lestrange. Having seen this man on many occasions, Draco knew he was not a man to go up against. This man was spoon fed by his wife and Lord. They were able to keep him chained to do their bidding, but in return, they gave him every indulgence of his sociopathic wants and needs. Now that they were gone what would become of him? Who would he become now that the leash had been taken off?

Draco donned his best sneer, one that came naturally even in the fear of death, and lifted his face to answer the unmasked Death Eater.

"Actually, Uncle, we are headed to the grounds to round up the remaining traitors. Come help us."

He noticed that Blaise held his breath next to him, nails digging into his arm. Rodolphus noticed Blaise's demeanor as well, and turned to him. "You, boy. Who are you?"

Before Blaise had a chance to answer, Rodolphus was knocked backwards. He flew up into the air and fell to an ungraceful heap on a nearby staircase that promptly moved, obstructing his uncle from their view. They looked sideways as Theo Nott was sauntering towards them. He seemed to be holding up a limping and bleeding Astoria Greengrass. "I didn't think I'd need to save you two so quickly. Come on, let's get the fuck out of here before we end up as Death Eater hors d'oeuvre."

The four of them left the broken doors of Hogwarts into the early morning light and made their way as quickly as possible towards the Forbidden Forest. They didn't have a clue where they would go, or how to even get there, but with Death Eaters hunting all living souls, and the Acromantula not caring which side anyone fought on, they knew they had no choice but to hide.

Theo struggled with Astoria, and she let out a cry of pain as they toppled over something in the grass. Draco and Blaise looked back at the fallen pair as Astoria let out the most tormented scream Draco had heard in the course of the battle that day. Across the grass of the grounds they could see bodies scattered everywhere, their decaying flesh causing a putrid steam to rise in the chilly morning air. It briefly occurred to Draco that he had not noticed them before. He was equally detached and involved in this series of events that made up the fight. _War is strange. How can I be so far removed from something so atrocious sitting at my feet? How did I run across the dead without a second thought?_

Draco ran back to his best friend and the girl, avoiding a few fallen schoolmates, to see what or whom they had tripped over. Daphne Greengrass, Astoria's older sister, lay face up, eyes wide, staring at nothing. Astoria's already petite frame seemed to shrink even smaller as she crumbled in grief to cover her sister's cold body with her own, willing her to breathe. Daphne would not breathe; she had long since passed. Draco was aware they would be joining her soon if they did not get out of the middle of the exposed field to some kind of cover. He grabbed the blonde firmly by the upper arms, and attempted to haul her sobbing form away. Astoria was wrought with despair, and clutched her sister's face and hair tightly. Theo unclenched each of her fingers, one by one, and Draco scooped her legs into his arms to carry her away, barely missing the club of a giant as it came barreling towards them through the air.

They ran towards the Herbology greenhouses till their muscles ached and their chests burned. As they neared the buildings, the group began to slow, taking a moment to catch their breaths. They needed to regain their composure if they were to get out of this alive. Astoria slid out of Draco's fatiguing arms in a heap, still in sight of anyone who remained on the grounds. She began to rock back and forth, with her arms holding her legs close to her chest, and eyes wide with shock, tears pouring heavily from them; she made no move to wipe them away.

"Shhhh, do you hear that?" Draco threw his arm out, immediately halting the other two as they strained their ears for any sound.

Theo bent down and scooped up Astoria with one arm supporting her knees and the other her back, and they quietly approached the shadows of the building closest to them.

From the edge of the Compost Shed, they could hear a dark, gravelly voice speak, "Oh, this one is so pretty. She reminds me of someone though, the dark hair and upturned nose."

"Don't fucking touch me, you piece of shit!" the girl spat out.

"That's Pansy," Blaise unnecessarily whispered into Draco's ear.

They listened as a new voice spoke. "That's because she is Parkinson's daughter."

"Oh, what fun you will be then. I expect I will not be the only one to enjoy teaching you a thing or two about what it takes for slags like you to serve the Dark Lord. What your precious daddy doesn't know, he can't stop. _Incarcerous!_ "

They stood and listened as Pansy's voice became strangled. She couldn't speak due to the ropes that now were holding her captive, but she was trying like hell.

"We have to do something!" Astoria urged, the panic gone, and a new light in her eyes as she wiggled for Theo to set her down.

"But what?" Draco asked, anxiety clear in his voice.

Theo stepped forward and grabbed Draco's upper arms in both his hands. "When I step out, I will blast him backwards. You cast a shield around me, and then I will take the other one down."

Draco looked back at Theo, and shook his head. "Theo, I don't even have a wand, and you don't how many there are. What if you hit Pansy?"

"Trust me, mate," Theo said, pulling an unknown wand from his pocket and shoving it at Draco's chest. "We don't really have any other choices at this point."

Theo stepped from the shadows before Draco could even argue or think of whose wand he now felt tingling in his palm. He heard Theo shout, " _Petrificus Totalus,"_ not knowing if the spell made contact or not. They watched as Theo ducked, barely missing a purple light aimed right where he had been, and Draco wasted no time in casting a Shield Charm around him. A new curse rebounded towards the caster of the purple spell. Theo aimed his wand and cast a spell that must have taken the remaining man down, because he looked at the three in the shadows and declared, "Geez Draco, you could've been a bit quicker with that Shield Charm. It's a wonder they didn't choose me for the Quidditch team."

Draco rolled his eyes, while Blaise and Astoria tore off around the edge of the shed to get to Pansy.

"What do we do now?" Draco turned to Theo.

"Let's just get into the shadows of the Forest and Apparate somewhere. The wards are down, we can leave."

"But what about the girls?" Draco asked.

"What do you mean, 'what about the girls'? Draco, we can't leave them. Astoria is hurt, and Pansy was almost raped. They come with us."

Draco looked like he was about to argue, but there was no time as their conversation was blown apart by an intensely hot fire. They immediately ran the remaining distance to the Forest. Hidden from view in the treeline, they watched the ignited Greenhouse disintegrate just before it exploded.

"Just go to the hills south of the Manor where we used to fly. GO NOW!" Draco screamed over the sound of the explosion. He watched as Theo Disapparated with Astoria, and Blaise with Pansy. Before raising his borrowed wand, he glanced back towards the castle; he was met with the haunting image of Hogwarts ablaze.

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 **A/N:** Please note, some of dialogue in this chapter is stripped straight from _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ itself during the Final Battle. We do not claim those words, but we do claim the look from a different character's POV. Hope you enjoyed!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** We would love to dedicate this chapter to one of our favorite writers. She has been so supportive of our story, and has been a tremendous encouragement in this process. If you've not read her works then please go check out  olivieblake. We especially love her story _'Clean'_ and it's sequel _'Marked'_. Thank you so much, Olivie, for everything. You are tremendous. xoxox

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWO**

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Hermione didn't register the trauma that surrounded her. Her only thoughts were of the still warm body beneath her. She willed the chest to lift against her face, the air to move in and out, and yearned to hear a heartbeat under her ear. She didn't feel the stone floor as it reverberated with hundreds of feet stomping around her. She couldn't hear the shouting of pain and anguish, nor did she process the battle sounds happening close to her. Her only awareness was of the black tousled hair gripped in her fingers and the thundering _woosh-woosh_ of the blood in her ears as her heart beat furiously in her chest, panic overtaking her physical body with what her mind refused to admit.

She did not notice as someone pulled her from Harry.

"Hermione, c'mon," a soft voice said.

"Hermione, we need to get out of here," the voice said again, this time putting a firm hand on her upper back.

"HERMIONE!"

She looked up into the face that had called out her name to be met with the indigo-blue eyes of her best friend, Ron. Blood oozing from a cut above his brow, and a swollen lip only enhanced the agonizing look of pain on his face.

"Ron, you're hurt," she muttered in a factual, studious tone while she reached into her purple beaded bag to Summon the Dittany she always had on hand.

"I - I can't - do you have my wand? I need to get the Dittany for your cut. It will swell soon if we do not treat it. I can't seem to Summon it."

Ron stared at her in disbelief as he tried to formulate some kind of plan to pull Hermione back to her wits. A war was happening all around them, and they were sitting ducks in a sea of Dark Curses while she looked to treat a scrape that he hadn't even noticed.

"Hermione, stop. I'm fine. Listen, we have to go…" he choked out the words as tears threatened to spill over the edge of his lashes. "We can't stay here."

Ron grabbed Hermione's face in his hands, forcing her eyes to make contact with his own, and after a few beats he saw the vacant glaze fall away to be replaced with a jolt of clarity.

"Ron, he's dead," she whispered as she threw her arms around his neck and held on to him tightly. She didn't know if he could hear her over the clamor surrounding them, but saw that he understood by the way he briefly cast his eyes to the floor where Harry lay.

Tugging on her arms a bit, he loosened her hold and met her eyes replying, "I know, but it's not safe here. We have to get out."

"We can't leave Harry! I will not just _leave_ him here to be trampled over," she ground out, tearing her arms from him forcefully, anger flooding her aching soul that he would even think to leave their best friend behind.

He looked at her nervously, but a determined flash crossed his features and he grabbed her hard on the upper arms. "Hermione, look at me." She looked away from his face, and he shook her firmly as he forced the truth from his lips. "Harry is dead! He's dead, dammit! The Death Eaters are taking control. We. Have. To. Get. Out!"

Hermione's eyes glazed over once again as she looked desperately around for answers; the scene unfolded itself in a matter of a few blinks. The Great Hall could hardly be called _great_ anymore. The stone walls were cracked and enormous gouges caused the structure to shake, ready to cave. The giant wooden beams above were splintered and began to split under the immense load. Glass rained from above showering jagged, glittering diamonds as the windows were shattered by the dragons and thestrals joining the fight, defending the side of the Light. Colors danced all around them as various hexes and curses were being thrown randomly from the Death Eaters that now out numbered them. She was swiftly pulled from her examination of the the building surrounding her with the realization she had yet to acknowledge; Harry was dead, and they needed to escape before dying themselves.

" _Crucio_!" The red light hit Ron directly in the chest, and she watched as his eyes slammed shut, his body falling back rigid with the pain of the curse.

The putrid smell of death hung heavy in the air, and all too quickly, Hermione picked up the broken bits of her soul and found herself face to face with the man controlling the torture curse on Ron. She shouted, " _Stupefy!_ " and the cobalt colored light hit its mark - the chest of Canis Crabbe and he collapsed, stunned.

"RON! Are you ok?" Hermione asked quickly, falling to her knees as she brushed his hair away from his face, leaving her palm to rest against his cheek. She knew the pain of that curse, and luckily he was only under it for a matter of seconds. He nodded weakly, and she pulled him limping towards the Entrance Hall eager to get out from what seemed to be the demise of Hogwarts, neither noticing the broken form of the late Lord Voldemort only feet from The Chosen One.

It seemed as though everyone realized the necessity of getting out of Hogwarts. The house point hourglasses were shattered, making the stone floor dazzle in emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and yellow diamonds. Suits of armor were ripped apart and scattered everywhere, their once grand presence nothing more than a broken shell. Ghosts fled through walls and back again not sure where to go, or what to do. Fires burned in random corridors, spreading through the halls and igniting portraits as their inhabitants screamed, fleeing to the next frame only to be consumed. Students, Professors, and Death Eaters alike were all fleeing to the sloping lawns from the doors of the school.

Once outside, the retreating forms scattered into whatever sanctity they could find while Death Eaters continued their fight and capture of anyone within sight. Hermione followed Ron at a slowed pace seeking what shelter they could find behind statues, garden walls, and other littered remains of battle. Both held their wands firmly, taking care to guard each other's backs.

Hermione pulled Ron down, ducking behind a collapsed archway from the courtyard to catch her breath. "We need a plan, Ron."

She watched him take his eyes away from the search for danger and meet her face. The sounds around them were deafening, the tainted smell of fear overwhelmed her senses, but when he slowly lifted his hand and cupped her face, she leaned into his palm and closed her eyes. In this moment, this moment alone, he was here to protect her - and even more - comfort her. She felt his other hand grab her face, palm slightly calloused, and his lips touched her temple. She pulled back to meet his eyes, and pressed her forehead against his, love pouring from one soul to the other as they filled each other with courage, and the will to continue this fight.

The moment ended as quickly as it began as a Death Eater came barreling into their hiding spot, barely missing the pair as his curse landed next to them, creating stone bits to explode everywhere. Ron was fast, and in the midst of the explosion he cast a spell that halted the Death Eater in his tracks. He grabbed Hermione's hand, hauling her to her feet as they sprinted down the only open path, towards the Black Lake.

From a distance they could see the morning light reflecting on the usually calm surface of the lake. As they approached, the lake was transformed into a pool of what seemed to be tidal waves of oil. The surge crashed over the banks leaving displaced grindylows and merfolk scrambling to get back into the water. The Giant Squid was in the middle of the lake, long tentacles flailing about and throwing water everywhere, leaving an inky wake in its path. Most people were fleeing from the hurricane of water, and they followed the scattering crowd in the opposite direction.

"Hermione, just stay close to me. We have to find the others, and get out of here! Head to the Willow. Maybe we can hide out in the tunnel?"

Her breath already labored, she could not argue as she followed him. As they rounded the bend, said tree was suddenly alight with enormous dancing flames. Hermione stared at the brightness, eyes open wide in shock as the thrashing fiery limbs of the tree made a haunting glow upon the landscape. They could see bodies scattered everywhere; not just humans, but house-elves, centaurs, hippogriffs, and even a giant. Hermione felt her hand cover her mouth as her breath was roughly ripped from her lungs. Ron gripped her other hand, grinding her bones together as he tried to keep his own fear from showing.

A guttural growl interrupted their stupor of utter terror, and it was followed by a scream that sounded all too familiar. Ron took off in pursuit of the scream, and Hermione followed right behind him. Rounding the corner they were met with Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf. He was worse off than most, blood seeping from under his matted hair, but his eyes still held a manic pleasure as he gripped Katie Bell by her hair pulling her head back as he whispered something into her ear. He had his other hand over her mouth, preventing her from screaming further. She thrashed and clawed urgently in an attempt to loosen his hold.

"Hey, let go of her!" Ron shouted.

The werewolf turned his head to glare at where Ron and Hermione stood. Hermione raised her wand as he took a step towards the duo, dragging Katie behind him, her hair still grasped in his fist. He stopped abruptly, eyes widening and then looked down at his feet. He let Katie go in surprise as he began to kick and hop in an almost perfect routine of the Samba.

"Really, little brother? You thought you could just _tell_ him to let Katie go?" George stepped from the shadows, heading swiftly to Katie as Greyback continued to dance his way towards the other two.

"Honestly, George Weasley, you're the only person I know who would attempt to befuddle a Werewolf with a Dancing Feet Spell!" Hermione chided while she quickly Stunned the dancing man and ran to help George with an obviously shaken Katie. She had fallen to the ground and was weakly smacking George's hand away from her as he held out a cream colored sweet.

"George! What in the name of Merlin are you giving to her?" Hermione demanded.

"Relax, Hermione," George reassured soberly, pushing the sweet towards Katie again. "It's an anxiety calming sweet. It won't hurt her, but it will help her come out of her shock."

Hermione watched as Katie chewed the sweet and swallowed, her swollen irises began to shrink and her hands stopped trembling. Katie looked to George as a single tear slid past her lashes.

Ron approached them and bent to meet Katie's face before gently, but firmly saying, "Katie, can you move? It's not safe here."

At Katie's nod, George grabbed her arm and flung it around his shoulders following Ron as he rounded the edge of the shadows. Hermione took up the rear, her head swiveling around seeking out an ambush. It wasn't until they came to the spot where the embers of what used to be Hagrid's hut burned, that it became all too clear they were in very big trouble. Voices surrounded them from all angles, some screaming in pain while others screamed out curses. Ron threw his arm out halting their progress, asking, "Can't we just Disapparate?"

"Ron," Hermione answered exasperated, "Hogwarts is protected by numerous ancient spells and incantations, such as the Anti-Disapparition Jinx; of course we can't just Disapparate."

"Hermione! Look around us!" Ron gestured with his arms wide. "Hogwarts is in bloody ruins. My guess, the only magic left here is Dark Magic."

"Well, I'm not going to be the one to try and splinch myself." Hermione retorted, crossing her arms over her chest, silently daring him to try himself.

"I hate to interrupt one of your many arguments, but I think we have some trouble headed this way," George said, pointing behind Hermione.

They all turned to watch as a half a dozen black figures walked swiftly towards their group. The band of hooded figures spread out, beginning to stalk their prey the way a pack of wolves hunts sheep. Without discussing, the four turned their backs to each other creating a circle, wands held out ready to strike. They edged their way together, away from the men outnumbering them as quickly as they could. As soon as the men were close enough, hexes began to fly; it was a blur as curses were launched at them. Hermione took out the Death Eater closest to her, and could hear George behind her cast a Shield Charm as a orange light blasted off of it and back at the offending man. Two men down, they were evenly matched now, but they were too powerful. These men were skilled at fighting, and knew Dark Curses most wizards and witches wouldn't dream of knowing - let alone using. The four continued to fight back as they were being pushed towards the gates of the school.

They used the strongest and deadliest curses they knew. This was not the time for Stupefy, as effective a tactic as it had been in the past. This was their lives, and they were barely school children anymore. _Avada Kedavra_ left the lips of each of the four D.A. members on multiple occasions during the scuffle, and not one paused to notice if it had been _their_ spell to cause the death.

They began to run in earnest now, turning their wands behind them when they could, taking out two more men. Hermione could see the gates beyond them, and other figures just past them. She slowed just a fraction, wondering if the people on the other side of the gate were friend or foe. Caught off guard, she felt the white light of a Stinging Hex hit her leg and she sprawled to the ground unable to move as the burning pain spread up her thigh. She raised her wand as the Death Eater advanced on her, ready to strike as a green flash headed in her direction. She closed her eyes, knowing she'd never open them again as she listened to the agonizing voice of Ron screaming her name.

She was sure she would be dead, but it seemed the curse must have missed. She opened her eyes at the feel of long fingers encircling her forearm. The face she was met with was all wrong. He had the signature Weasley red hair and freckles over the bridge of his nose, but the eyes - they were brown. This was not her Ron. _This must be_ _George_ , she concluded as she noticed his missing ear. He grabbed her, pulling her to her feet, and they ran. She saw Katie fifteen yards ahead, sprinting, but where was Ron? She turned her head over her shoulder to see the form of a redheaded man laying face up where she had previously been. A quiet whimper escaped her lips, and silent tears fell down her face.

George never left her side, even though her stride was so much smaller, and she was slower due to the Stinging Hex that still burned. He gripped her hand, pulling her towards the gates as more people and creatures ran beside them. She noticed a wave of shimmer at the gates, and recognized a shield, but what kind? What was it? Her heart jumped as Katie ran through the barrier like she was crossing Platform 9 ¾. She was quickly followed by a figure that was within inches of being caught by a Death Eater. The assailant hit the barrier, expecting to follow his victim, but was thrown thirty yards away, coming to a heap on the ground. This was the work of the Light; they were there and had somehow created a safety for those who needed it. They had almost reached the end, and as they were only feet away from the gates, Hermione looked over her shoulder to see her home burn to the ground, both her best friends gone with it.

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Uh... does "Sorry" make up for it? We had to do it. ~L&S

 **~Thank you so much for reading, and for all of the favorites and follows. You guys rock!**

 **This chapter goes to WL . Erkling, sao172, and meenakaster. We really appreciate your reviews on our OS and the first chapter. Thank you for the support! ~**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** We would like to dedicate this chapter to the most talented thewaterfalcon! She not only blesses us with the most amazing aesthetics and cover art ever, but she is currently writing a Paneville (Pansy/Neville) called _'Darkened Skies'_ and we highly recommend it! Go read it!

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 **CHAPTER THREE**

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Landing on the hilltop south of Malfoy Manor, Draco took in the grim stretch below him. The drive was bleak, the lush gardens now dead, the fountain cracked and dry, and the house, once majestic and opulent, reduced to a depressing grey washed-out stone building. It seems whatever magic surrounded the house had crumbled in the wake of Voldemort's death, the façade he had created to boast of his greatness gone with it, leaving the true building behind. The Manor was surrounded in darkness, even though the early morning light was quickly overtaking the dawn. Draco shivered. He had no desire to spend any length of time in this shell of a home any longer, but they needed supplies, and he desperately wanted news of his mother.

"Not _quite_ the same house I remember. What the fuck happened to it?" Theo questioned, lowering Astoria to the ground.

"Who the fuck knows. I am sure the Dark Lord has had it spelled to look in far less disrepair than what it truly has been. My father was barely surviving our house guest's stay, and I doubt he has kept up with the actual running of the place." Draco sneered as he said the words 'house guest'. The madman who took over their Manor was little more than an imprisoner, holding his parents hostage in his own twisted game of loyalty.

"Malfoy, what's your plan? I mean, you do have a plan, right?" Blaise demanded pacing back and forth, looking at the decrepit manor with suspicion and anxiousness.

"I'm going to go down to the Manor and take a look around." At Theo's vehement argument, Draco continued with a more determined voice, "I'm not sure if the Blood Wards are still in place, but the Dark Lord was very protective of the property, and it's more than likely he set up traps for people who aren't welcome."

"Draco, _you're_ not welcome there now. If any of the Death Eaters are there…this is suicide. They'll know you've turned traitor. We should all stick together," Pansy spoke for the first time since arriving on the hilltop, her voice clear but a bit shaky.

"No, I'll do this alone. You guys hang back here. And for Salazar's sake try not to get killed while I'm gone!" Draco instructed the group firmly, eyes connecting with Theo and then Blaise, an unspoken conversation occurring between them. These guys were much more reliable and intelligent than his usual lackeys of Crabbe and Goyle, and they could handle pretty much anything if it went to shit in his absence. He could count on them, and his looks to them insisted upon that.

Theo opened his mouth to either dispute the plan, or demand to come with him; whichever it was Draco was not having it. "Theo, don't even try. We don't have time to argue. I will be back in ten minutes." He gave them all a curt nod before Disapparating into the Drawing Room.

After the Dark Lord took up residence in Draco's childhood home he changed several things about the structure of the wards, including preventing Apparation except into and out of the Drawing Room. This was just another piece of evidence in the growing list of paranoid, controlling, and obsessive restrictions put in place by Voldemort to govern his followers. The self-proclaimed 'Most Powerful Wizard' of all time was really a little shithouse that did not even trust the men in his inner circle to move about freely in their center of operations.

The house seemed eerily quiet compared to the hustle and bustle that usually echoed down the long hallways. With the Manor being the Dark Lord's headquarters for quite some time, the walls were accustomed to a certain level of screaming, torment, and anguish amongst the frivolity of grand parties and illustrious gatherings. It was a juxtaposition for sure, but Draco did not have time to dwell on it now. He was most concerned with gathering supplies and getting the hell out, and so he began moving down the hall towards the main staircase.

"Draco?" a hushed, but fierce voice called from the side of his head. Draco jumped, stopping in his tracks and nearly falling over, his heartbeat coming to a grinding halt in his chest as his lungs expelled all of the air inside them forcefully. He spun swiftly in his place as he aimed the already lifted wand to the direction the voice had come from. The magical portrait of Abraxas Malfoy stared back at his grandson, startled. "Fucking shit Abraxas. I nearly put a hole through your head. What the hell are you doing?" Draco demanded of his late grandfather's portrait while he collected his breathing and tamed his wildly beating heart.

"Put that wand away, boy! Is that really an appropriate way to address your grandfather?" he sneered disdainfully, clearly offended by Draco's informal use of his given name and the foul language surrounding it.

Taking another moment to steady his nerves, Draco quipped, "You're dead. I don't have any obligation of respect to you anymore." His grandfather was vile, and after the last few years he had had, Draco could not muster the energy to bow and scrape to the Malfoy patriarch. In any case, this was a war, and all of the pretenses of the antiquated pureblood etiquette would just be fuel for the fire; it was something he had no interest in participating in any longer.

The slack jawed look of disgust and shock on the old portrait's face was incredibly satisfying. Draco turned to ignore his now ranting ancestor, but Abraxas continued on, "You can be sure sure your father will hear about this," the portrait spat back in anger, "but for now, I must know, what has happened at Hogwarts? The portraits are talking, they say it's burned to the ground, in ruins. Is it? Well is it, boy?"

Draco rolled his eyes, not giving enough of a shit to waste another minute on informing a portrait, ancestor or not, of the demise of the world. He cast a non-verbal _Silencio_ to quiet the long winded questions being fired from the man. The chance to defy his grandfather was invigorating, and Draco had a renewed sense of purpose in the exchange.

Taking a deep breath, he carefully made his way up the large staircase, advancing silently and listening intently. In the adrenaline of moving undetected he forgot he could cast his modified _Homenum Revelio,_ the Human-Presence-Revealing Spell. Draco smiled to himself for his cleverness in spite of the situation at hand; he was exceptionally talented in charms and had personally altered the traditional spell to include creatures in his detection. At the top of the stairs, he slid flat along the wall of a darkened alcove and spoke, " _Viate Revelio"._ A sort of hologram popped out of his wand, the perfect layout of Malfoy Manor before him in shimmering blue lines. He saw the flickering orange dots indicating several house elves moving around in the kitchens, no doubt preparing the celebratory feast that would never occur. Thankfully, only one green dot showed, in the place he stood, signaling there were no other humans in the house at this time aside from himself. _Well, that's a relief,_ he breathed deeply, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders melt a smidgen.

As he made his way down the twisting, dark corridors, Draco pondered at how easily this wand responded to him, and was taken aback by the lack of resistance to the complicated spell. _Viate Revelio_ was intricate and required quite a bit of magic to ensure accuracy, and since the wand was not his own, but one that Theo snatched from some dead body, it was a wonder he was even successful at all. He shivered slightly at the still too real images that flashed in front of him at the thought of the battle. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, he looked down at the wand fisted in his right hand. He recognized it was made of hawthorne, just like his original wand, and was of similar length. He suspected the core was different since it did not feel perfect, however there seemed to be a familiar similarity to how the magic felt. _I wonder whose wand this really is, and if it is truly loyal to me?_

Being virtually alone in the house, Draco picked up his pace, jogging down the hallway to the east wing, and ducked into his bedroom. Once inside, he turned and shut the door, sliding down the six panel frame to his rear, willing his heart to slow from the racing effort of exertion and adrenaline. He hung his head and attempted to control his breathing as he began to take notice of his appearance. His always immaculate robes were ripped, and the hems singed. He smelled of blood, dirt, and musky fear. Pulling himself up before the soreness in his muscles set in, he swiftly paced to the sink in his private bathroom. He held onto the edge of the porcelain, and his knuckles turned white with the strength of this grip. Draco was haunted by the image he saw as his own reflection stared back. His normally slicked back hair was tangled, dust clinging to the strands, causing it to be matted in places. His face was paler than usual, but the splatters of blood across his cheek, which belonged to anyone but him, colored them. The slate darkness of his pupils spoke to the horrors that played across his lids with each blink. The horrors he desperately wanted to ignore. Determined to halt whatever breakdown was bubbling under the surface of his cracked and bloodied body, he submerged his head in the cold water of the basin.

Dragging a hand down his face, he cast a wandless Drying Spell and continued back into his bedroom. This was not the time to fall apart, and he needed to hurry back to the group. Draco headed immediately to the secure stash of galleons hidden in the complicated desk drawer compartment. It required several Protective Enchantments to be reversed, and a drop of his own blood to gain entry into the desk. After reciting the incantations he was awarded with the intricate unfolding of many drawers within drawers as the dark cherry secretary expanded to reveal hundreds of small compartments. He grabbed a napsack from his closet that was previously enchanted with both Weightless and Undetectable Extension Charms, something he saw the infuriating Granger girl do to her school bag when she filled it with a library's worth of tomes and was unaware anyone was watching. At the time, he was annoyed with the cleverness of the witch, and was invariably impressed with how she thought of something so brilliant and useful, though he would never admit it. She was clearly the only reason Potter and Weasel made it out of any of their near-death-experiences alive. _I suppose it's a moot point now though, with Potty being dead and all_.

Draco moved back to the desk, throwing several pouches of Muggle notes and Wizard galleons into his satchel, probably a few thousand pounds worth. He was worried they would not have access to their vaults after the initial panic died down, and luckily he kept a nice stash of the extras he withdrew at random times in case his father was being uncharitable with the vault keys. How such thoughts of clarity occurred to him at a time like this, he did not know, but he was grateful he seemed to have a sense of purpose about him at this moment. His survival would depend upon him being able to make sound decisions. He also had the forethought to toss in several shelves worth of books, parchment, quills, and ink, his potions kit, and clothes. A second later he was coming back out of the bathroom having tossed in soap and toothbrushes, thinking it necessary to have the grime and gore washed from his skin. After a quick overview of the room, he once again approached the desk and picked up a small locking, ebony box with walnut and hawthorne inlay which his mother gave to him - his only personal memento, but important none the less. Who knew how long it would be before he could return here, or if the Manor would still be standing when he did?

As he was shutting his bedroom door and preparing to leave, he heard a noise coming from the other end of the hall. He stopped, pressing himself flush with the doorframe as if he could blend into the wall. " _Viate Revelio_ ," he whispered, revealing a single person in the Master Suite. Unsure of his next steps, Draco took a moment to weigh his options. The Master Suite was in the opposite direction of the Drawing Room, his exit. It could be a trap to lure him, or anyone else in the house, into a duel, but more than likely it was his mother or father's return to the Manor. The decision seemingly being made for him, Draco's feet carried him quickly, but silently down the long hallway to his parent's master bedrooms. He knew every creaky floorboard by muscle memory and managed to arrive at his chosen destination without a single signal of his approach. Sad as it was to admit, spying for Lord Voldemort had paid off in some areas, and his stealth was no exception. He entered the main sitting room of the master suite through the open door. In front of him was a vacant seating area, to the left a dressing room and bathroom, and to the right the sleeping chambers. He headed for the door he knew to be his mother's and found it closed - a good sign. Hoping it was her in there, he pressed his ear to the solid oak and listened intently; he could hear the click-clack shuffle of his mother's heels upon the oak floors. According to the Presence-Revealing-Spell he cast earlier, she was intended to be alone. He took a deep breath and steeled his courage, pushing the door open on the exhale.

Wide blue eyes, the color of a summer's sky, landed on his face, and his mother's expression softened immediately. Relief flooded Draco's being as his heart sped up at the vision of his mother standing before him, very much alive.

"Draco, you're safe," Narcissa Malfoy breathed out in utter relief at the sight of her mostly unscathed son.

Closing the gap between the two, Draco walked towards the woman taking in her still pristine appearance. Her hair was pulled back in a knot, and while her robes were wrinkled, as if she'd been running, they were not torn. "Mother, are you alright? Are you hurt? Where is Father?"

"Fine. I am as fine as to be expected. I suspect your father is still at Hogwarts. Is it true what the portraits are saying?" At Draco's nod, she continued with a vacant expression clouding her eyes, "I left right after the snake… I couldn't find you, so I came here in hopes that you would be here."

"Mother, it's not safe for you here. The Death Eaters will be returning any minute now. All hell fucking broke loose. The Dark Lord is dead. Potter is dead. It's going to be a nightmare."

Narcissa responded in the most motherly tone she could muster, "I know, I know. Don't worry about all of that. Your father will take care of us, like always. It is _you_ we have to concern ourselves with!" She sounded almost automated as if she had no idea of the surrounding circumstances, and maybe she didn't. Lucius did always attempt to keep her out of the line of fire, and it seemed as if being a Death Eater's wife came with the special privilege of innocence, feigned as it may be. Narcissa played the part of dutiful wife perfectly, and most of the time it appeared she was completely ignorant of, and unaffected by, his father's dealings. Though she was at the Castle early that morning, Narcissa was never one to get involved in a duel if she could avoid it; as skilled of a duelist as she was, it was not her style. And she did leave before watching Hogwarts crumble to heap of ash, so the severity of their current circumstances might not have sunken in completely.

No matter. This was not the time for blindness, and Draco would not coddle her like his father had the nasty habit of doing. "Mother, I don't know what you're talking about," he urged, moving to take her hand and physically bring her along with him if that is what she required, "we have to go!"

She turned her body from him a degree, eyes devoid of emotion, and face expressionless. The hand he had reached to take moved itself out of range, and her palm rested, instead, on a necklace hanging loosely near her heart. Draco started feeling more alarmed by his mother's inexpression and insisted, "You have to come with me! I'm trying to tell you, it's not safe."

"Draco, dear, I must stay here by your father's side. I don't know his fate, but I am bound to him, and I will need to wait for him." As Narcissa spoke she took a thin gold chain off of her neck and slid a ring from her third finger on her right hand over it before securing the clasp. Her movements were graceful and practiced, but the slight quiver in her wrist betrayed the fear she must have been feeling, however carefully she tried to mask it. She grabbed Draco's hand in her own, and he palmed the chain automatically. "Please, hurry. This ring has a Location Charm on it. I will find you."

 _What the ever living fuck is happening right now?_ Draco wondered in disbelief as he stared at his mother's impassive face; she really was good at guarding her true thoughts. If she had any fear, she wasn't giving much away. The panic began to return, the adrenaline of the battle beginning to wind down, and the bile in his stomach rising up.

Starting to feel quite angry at his mother's naive insistence, he raised his voice an octave, the timbre deepening with his ire, "This isn't the time to be sacrificing for me." His mother's face flashed briefly with shock or bewilderment, Draco could not be sure which, so he softened his volume and persisted. "I know you want to protect me, and that is what this is about. But I can not leave you behind to whatever fate the Death Eaters decide for you. I will not."

"Draco, hear me quite plainly," she addressed him firmly as her stance straightened, and the vacancy began to fall away. Her expressionless face altered to one of conviction. She looked like a mighty lioness, strong and fierce, determination shining across her darkened eyes. Draco supposed he was the cub in this analogy, quivering with fear and lost without his mother by his side.

"This is not your decision to make," she spoke, maintaining the lioness posture and determined presence. "I know exactly the risk that I am taking in staying behind here. _Your life_ is of the utmost importance to me, and it is _the only reason_ I still breathe."

Draco gasped at the implication and turned his head to look away from her. His mother had always struggled with bouts of depression, but he had never heard her refer to her suicide attempts out loud. Once when he was very young, he overheard her talking to a Home-Healer as she detailed the struggles she had faced before his birth that had stopped just after he was born. Since that day, Draco had carried the heavy burden of guilt for his mother and her unhappiness; always painfully aware that he remained the reason she was shackled to a life she did not want to live. The ever present weight continued to ache to his very bones.

Wrought with grief, Draco's shoulders sank, head dipping low in contrition. His eyes fixed themselves on a knot in the wooden floor board, refusing to meet the pale blue gaze of his mother for fear of completely losing his composure. The words escaped in one whispered breath, "nevermeantforyoutohurt."

She reached for his hand once more, and rubbed a thumb along his wrist, beckoning him to look up at her. The tone of her voice was every bit the mother he grew up with; soft, loving, kind. "You, my dear son, could never be the reason I hurt. You are, in fact, the reason I have a tremendous amount of joy." She added a bit more firmly with a squeeze of her palm against his, "...a joy that will die if any harm comes to you."

He lifted his eyes through his lashes, and watched as her softened gaze steeled itself again, the cool, collected, and in control Narcissa replacing the Mother he loved so fondly. Narcissa spoke again, "I cannot emphasize it any clearer. I, more than anyone else, understand what risk there is with the Dark Lord dead. You are in grave danger, and you need to hide."

She flashed him a challenging gaze and he swallowed his rebuttal. Draco did not dare argue with her on this.

"Now, you will go, and I will stay. I will do my best to help you when I can, and I will find you by the ring. Keep it with you always," she instructed him clearly and strongly, a hint of desperation in her blue irises. And though he felt like he was a small boy who had just been scolded by his nanny, he appreciated the love in the tone of her rebuke.

"Mother, I…" Draco trailed off, the bile catching in his throat again.

"... love you too, my dear son," she finished the words for him, placing her soft palm on his cheek. "Now, go. I will find you when it's safe," she reassured him once again.

Narcissa slid her hand from his face to grip his biceps in each of her trembling hands and kissed his cheek. His mother was not often one for displays of affection, but she had always given him just enough to know she truly loved him in the way a mother should. He reached out and squeezed her hard, maybe too hard, in a hug that felt a bit more natural than it should have done considering the few times they had encountered one another in this way. It was not a goodbye embrace, but a see-you-later, and he hoped she knew the difference. Not a minute later, Narcissa Malfoy was turning her son's shoulders and pressing on him gently in the middle of his two sharp shoulder blades to encourage him out the door. He turned to look back before leaving the room to meet her eyes again. Her face was pulled taut in a grimace and she was holding her breath. Her eyes pooled with sadness and maybe even regret. The image of his mother was replaced with the intricate carvings in the heavy oak door, leaving him once again alone. His feet trudged as though through treacle as he begrudgingly made his way to the Entrance Hall.

On his way out, he thought to snag his cloak and a few extras for the others from the Entry Hall cupboard. _It's a shame this wardrobe doesn't lead to some magical place we could escape to. Wouldn't that be wild?_ Shaking the ridiculous thought away, he noticed his Firebolt propped up in the corner behind the cloaks, and grabbed that too.

He exited through the grand front door of the Manor and promptly vomited his whole stomach's contents -which was not much- and then some. He heaved violently as the bile emptied itself from him finally, in anguished relief. While he gagged and tried to catch his breath, the diamond paned windows of the decrepit manor reflected his battered appearance as a result of the retching. A few stray tears marked his cheeks, and burst blood vessels appeared under his sunken eyes. His breath now reeked of the traitorous bile that exposed his absolute fear for his life and the life of the only person he has ever truly loved; the person he just walked away from. Leaving the Manor and abandoning his mother was the hardest thing he had done that day.

Without the focus or magical strength to safely Apparate, he hiked sluggishly back to the hilltop, the risk of flying on his recently acquired broom too treacherous - that would have to be saved for emergencies only. When he finally arrived, the quartet were exactly where he left them. Pansy was leaning with her back against Blaise's torso where he sat against a tree, his fingers tracing lines up her arms and twirling themselves absentmindedly in her raven hair. He looked off to the left with a pained expression on his face and vacant eyes, no doubt reliving the _delightful_ morning they had all just experienced. Pansy was chewing on her finger tips, the usually perfectly manicured nails already worn down to the quick, cuticles bleeding from her gnawing. The worn path in the tall grass and the green stains on his trainers were evidence of Blaise's perpetual pacing, something Pansy reprimanded him for on a regular basis. Their false nonchalance was clearly being camouflaged in this out of place embrace. The anxiety was written all over them.

Theo was whittling stray branches with his wand into makeshift shanks while scowling nastily. Draco knew to avoid him based on the face alone; whatever Theo was dealing with wouldn't be resolved right now. Astoria was laying face up in grass, legs outstretched and one ankle resting upon Blaise's folded jumper, her hands delicately draped over her stomach. She was staring at the now cerulean sky as hot tears silently poured from her eyes - the only true indication among the four that anything amiss had happened that morning.

Draco sank into the dew covered earth near Astoria and flopped onto his back, slipping the gold chain into his trouser pocket and taking a few moments to calm his ragged breathing. He thought of some of the things he had witnessed over the past few hours, and he supposed they did not really stack up to the horrors they had all faced this past year. Yes, this battle was bloody and gruesome and terrible, and many many people died. It was evil incarnate, and they were all victims in one way or another.

 _But what is one more battle when we have been living at a castle run by Death Eaters and torturing each other with the Cruciatus Curse every day? I guess I can't blame them for fucking feeling numb to all of it at this point. Survive. We are all just surviving._

Draco noticed his lungs fill at a more human pace and shifted his thoughts to the incessant question clawing in the back of his mind, _Where the hell do we go from here?_

He left his musings, and frankly emotions, behind as he slid into the role given to him by their group: the leader. He didn't ask for it, no one ever voted on it, yet here it was; they all expected him to lead. So he rolled over onto his side and looked at the young face of the blonde beside him. "Astoria, are you still hurt?"

"Only my ankle," she breathed out through sobs, "and maybe my ribs... I think I took a Stunner to the chest. I'm not sure."

Draco looked back towards the couple behind him. "Pansy, I know you secretly helped Longbottom with healing people after the Carrows worked a number on them," he accused the girl, tossing an incredulous glance in her direction. "Why are you just sitting there?" he barked. "Fucking help her!"

Pansy's face dropped with the shock of her secret being found out, but it was quickly replaced with the carefully collected and frigid guise she often wore. She left her seat against Blaise to crouch beside Astoria's feet. It was clear the ankle had been broken badly. "Nott, make a splint from those branches."

Theo, who was now looking more concerned than murderous, hurriedly Transfigured a few of the dull shanks into a wider, flat splint which Pansy carefully set behind the injured girl's heel.

"This shouldn't hurt too much," Pansy attempted to pacify the blonde whose eyes were wide as saucers and filled with uncertainty. She continued on with a side look at Draco, "If we had the proper potions, then it could be mended in a night. As it stands, I can't do anything without pain relief. Draco, give her a Pain Potion and your hand to squeeze."

Draco sat up, balking at the girl, "Parkinson, you must be taking the piss."

"No the fuck I'm not. Give her the potion and hold her damn hand. You owe me," she retorted, venom in her voice.

With a dramatic huff and eyeroll, Draco murmured under his breath, "Yes, mother."

Rummaging in his bag, he removed the small Field Potions Kit that Severus Snape taught him to have prepared at all times. It was a collection of home-brewed elixirs, mostly to treat illnesses, but he did have some useful potions for injuries as well. Addressing Astoria, and resolutely ignoring Pansy, he offered, "Here, take this. It's my last one, but we need you to be able to move, and when we get settled I can brew some more." Draco extended an uncorked phial of deep purple liquid, and she swallowed it in one gulp. She handed the phial back to Draco, entwining her fingers with his, and closed her eyes shut against the oncoming pain. He knew this particular potion would also have a sedating effect so they would need to move quickly to find a place to sleep for the night.

"Squeeze his hand until it breaks," Pansy added with a smirk at Astoria before whispering the incantation, " _Ferula._ " Everyone watched as bandages snaked themselves out of Pansy's wand to wrap around Astoria's ankle, securing the Transfigured splint. She grimaced as the pressure from the cotton bandages wound themselves around the tender and swollen flesh. A few whimpers she tried to hold back fell from her mouth, and grateful fingers dug into Draco's palm.

"Now, this will still need some healing since I don't know any spells for a break this large. And you'll need to stay off of it-" Draco's incredulous snort interrupted her, and she tossed a warning glance in his direction, "-but at least it has a chance to set properly in the splint." Pansy addressed Astoria tenderly, the venom in her voice directed earlier to Draco long since dissipated.

"Brilliant, thank you, Pansy," Astoria sighed in relief.

"How is it feeling?" the untrained 'mediwitch' inquired.

"There is a dull ache in my ribs, but the potion has helped. And the pain is almost gone in my ankle."

"I don't want to rush you, but we do need to move someplace less exposed. Are you okay to Apparate once more?" Draco inquired with a gentle firmness, hand still holding hers.

"Yes, if it means I can go to sleep soon, I will do anything." The blonde's eyes were still hollow with sadness and pain, and the never ending stream of tears still covered her cheeks, pooling at the base of her neck.

Draco lifted her once again by the knees into his arms, and said, "Theo, get everyone to the Nott Barn. I don't think I can Apparate more than two of us safely, and you obviously know where it is."

They arrived at the barn situated on the edge of the expansive Nott property in a heap and tangle of limbs. Draco swiftly pushed an arm from his face, Blaise's by the dark color, and unwound himself from the twist of Astoria's long blonde hair. Apparating when they were this tired did not make for the most graceful of landings, but no one seemed to be worse for wear. Draco muttered to Theo as he slid himself from underneath his leg, "Remind me to walk a safe distance away from you next time we Apparate. How did we end up in the same fucking spot?!"

Astoria was nearly asleep as the full effect of the Pain Potion took hold of her already exhausted form. Draco Transfigured a plank of wood into a simple camping bed and guided her steadily to lie down on it, laying a spare cloak on her as a blanket.

This barn was his and Theo's main escape from the terrors of their childhood. He loathed to spend unnecessary time with his father who was cruel and distant in his early years, and Theo's dad was usually too busy raping and tormenting some poor Muggle to notice their disappearance. In their teens they snuck firewhisky and weed to stash away in the floorboards of the forgotten barn. They had built, for themselves, a fairly comfortable clubhouse at one point in time, and he was amazed it was still relatively intact.

Once Astoria drifted off to sleep, Draco made his way up to the loft where he found the dusty couches and the remnants of their youth. Theo was propped in an oversized plush chair, leg tossed over the arm comfortably, twiddling one of his wand-whittled shanks.

"I can't wait to put this through the heart of my father." Theo's deadly stare penetrated Draco's grey eyes. His face wore a calculating expression filled with savagery and intent. "It's all I could think about the whole battle-" Nimble fingers twirled the stake with skill between them. "-how I want to watch him bleed until the life leaves his eyes."

Draco approached him cautiously. Theo was the silent, seething type, and rarely ever spoke of violence. "Yes, well, if we make it out of whatever hell this world will become without the Dark Lord _and_ Harry Bloody Potter, I will hold him down for you myself."

Theo and Draco exchanged a lingering look in the pause. The air was thick with tension, the heavy uncertainty weighing on them. They had been friends for a long time, and neither really needed to say much to communicate what they wanted. Draco felt a pull of concern for the friend who was much like a brother. Both of them were only children when they met, and over the years they relied upon each other in some of their darkest moments. Last year, Theo saw him unravel with the Great Task set before him by the Dark Lord, and without judgement, stood beside him while he helped Death Eaters break into a school full of children. He had exposed every one of his demons before this man, and now Theo was telling him of his.

While they were _not_ talking to one another, Pansy climbed up the ladder. "Draco, you go sit with Astoria," she demanded, poking him in the chest with her nail-bitten finger. "She needs someone to take care of her, and this couch is calling my name," she explained, collapsing onto the cushions, causing a puff of dust to escape the seams.

"Don't you dare think you can order me around, Pans. I will do this for you, but we are fucking even. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say," she retorted sarcastically. "Send Blaise up for me, will you? It's cold up here."

Draco ignored her, and turned to Theo, raising a brow in question, "You cool?"

"Yeah, sure, cool," Theo snapped with an acerbic bite and looked away with an eyeroll. Standing up smoothly, he announced, "I'm bloody starving. I'm going to go nick some food from the kitchens. Doubt my father will even be here." After a few moments of arguing, they decided food was worth the risk and Theo left for the kitchens.

A few moments later, Draco took his place beside the sleeping Astoria. Her face was no longer pulled taught with the grimace of grief, and the tears had stopped, leaving her cheeks with a sticky sheen. The quick splash in the sink made a dent in his disheveled appearance, but he surely fared no better than her. His mind refused to settle, swirling in a multitude of directions, and confusing his emotions which tried of their own accord to sort themselves out. He was not raised to emote; it is just not what pureblood men do. Compassion is a weakness, caring leaves you vulnerable. But Pansy used that word, _care_ , when she asked him to look over Astoria. The implications reached beyond just this night; they always do with Pansy. She would milk this favor she was calling in for everything it's worth and then some. But he supposed he did owe Pansy a great deal. She'd covered for him quite a few times in their past, and because of that he would have to figure this caring thing out. While he never _cared_ for Pansy the way that he assumed she did for him, he did feel a sense of obligation to her for keeping his secrets and sharing his bed.

Pushing aside thoughts of sharing a bed with Pansy - _Yuck!_ , Draco focused on Transfiguring another bed for himself. It was still daylight out, as evident by the glow coming through the damaged eaves, but the exhaustion was becoming unbearable, and he needed to lie down before he passed out.

Blaise noticed his friend's close proximity to the sleeping witch, and took the opportunity to tease. "Watch out for that one, mate. Next thing you know she'll be screaming your name," his voice carried up the loft steps. "You'll have to let me know if the carpet matches the drapes," Blaise muttered as his face disappeared into the loft.

"You're disgusting, Zabini," Draco growled out toward the now empty ladder rungs.

 _It's going to be a long fucking few weeks holed up here with the despot, the grouch, the jester, and the cripple,_ he mused with an eyeroll. _How Blaise even has a sense of humor at this juncture is unfathomable._

Draco settled into the makeshift bed and put the knapsack under his head as a pillow. With his mother's gold chain clutched in his right hand, and an unconscious Astoria on his left, he cast a _Muffliato_ for the onslaught of tears he knew were coming. All of the gold in Gringotts could not dissuade the emotions pressing heavily upon his chest, urging their release.

Draco fought against the impending assault; this was all too much, and he did not want to - no, he could not - deal with it right now. His body was physically ill with the anxiety and fear of the Battle as it left him. His skin crawled with fire all over it, and he rubbed his hands frantically over his arms and thighs in an attempt to dissuade it. His restless stomach churned violently, threatening another attack. His eyes suffered from lightning bolts that struck behind them at random intervals, shooting pain straight to the top of his skull. And every time he closed his eyelids he smelled blood; metallic, rancid, and heavy, filling his nostrils with the putrid stench of death. His exhausted mind could not focus his breathing, and his lungs shook violently with the panic of hyperventilation.

Forcing his body to a sitting position, Draco pulled his knees close to his chest, head low between them, and calmed himself silently in the all too familiar mantra. _One, two, breathe out. Three, four, breathe in. Five, six, breathe out. Seven, eight, breathe in._ After what felt like a wizard's lifetime, Draco was able to breathe deeply, the pain in his oxygen starved lungs seared itself into each capillary on the inhale.

No, this would not be his breakdown, not right now when he needed to survive.

He needed to squelch this pain of feeling. He needed to bury it deep inside where it would not breach the surface, so he could hold it together. So he could hold _himself_ together. _Survive. We are all just surviving._ Remembering that Astoria took the last Pain Potion, he screamed, albeit weakly, an impassioned, "Fuck!" His mind filled in the gaps that his breath was still too weak to enunciate, _bastard-twatting-cunt-fucking-bugger-shit._

Pulling the knapsack from behind him, he rummaged through until he found his potions kit from the depths of the highly disorganized bag. Setting out the cauldrons and ingredients was comforting, like saying hello to an old friend. He paused to smell the mixture of yarrow and chamomile leaves, letting the flowery and sweet scent replace the lingering blood he knew was still there, if only in his mind. He felt the smooth edges of unicorn horn and sharp points of the porcupine quills, letting the familiar feeling guide his skilled and calloused fingers to do the dance they often did, grinding them to a fine dust. Last, he grabbed his knife, the handle was made of dragon bone and the blade goblin's silver; it would never rust or dull, and was incredibly strong. He used the flat side of the blade and pushed it gently along the top of the poppy pod squeezing the milk from it's inners. The mechanical movements of potions work could be mundane for average students, but for Draco, it had always been his solace, his salvation. He relished in the certainty of combining ingredients of measured amounts, at precise timing, over specific heat. When done properly, the results were flawless, absolute, positive, guaranteed. The simple act of setting up his substitute work-bench put Draco in a completely different frame of mind. The fear of the battle was a hazy memory on the outskirts of his peripherals, and his focus was only on the potion now.

Once past the most intricate steps of the slicing and stirring, all that was left was adding the final ingredient, syrup of hellebore before simmering on low heat for five hours. With the promise of potion nearly in his grasp, Draco sighed in relief as he flopped backwards onto the bed for the second time that day, feeling a lightness of spirit. The daylight had moved over the top of the barn, and would be setting somewhere far off in the distance soon; perhaps in another place, where the Dark Lord did not terrorize, and the Boys Who Lived were every single one of them. No death, no war; just peace.

He heard a deep sigh come from his left, and startled with a jolt at someone being in his company. He had gotten lost in the potions and had forgotten Astoria was even there. She looked to be sleeping still; her face was not quite pleasant, but not worried either. He considered this girl who was now in his charge. She had just lost her sister, and he, in essence, had lost his mother. Though he may have left his mother alive, he was still grieving for her. He mourned the loss of her, for the eventuality that would become a reality for her; for the death he had condemned her to.

Watching Astoria sleep, he felt a very small part of his grief resonate with a small part of hers; very different, but very much the same.

 _At least we are not alone, anymore, in our grief._

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 **~ We are blown away by the support this story is receiving. It is something close to both of our hearts, and we are so grateful that so many of you are reading, following, favoriting, and reviewing! We especially want to recognize** **LeanaM** **,** **MrsMorgan813** **,** **clarkfan325** **who have been reviewing since 'Finding You'. Thank you so much for your continued love! ~**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** This chapter is dedicated to our fellow writer and dear friend  goldensnitch18. She is one of our best friends and head cheerleader for this story and pretty much all we do in life. Thank you, love, for being an amazing friend. Xoxox We are in love with her Dramione, "Starting Over", and all of you should go read it right now!

So many tears were shed writing and editing this chapter. Our apologies, in advance, but it needed to be done. *secretly collects reader's tears to feed writing muse*

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 **CHAPTER FOUR**

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The sensation of running through the shield was like stepping into a cool shower after being outside on the hottest day of summer; refreshing and cleansing. One moment the gates that bordered the Castle were there and the next they disappeared as Hermione ran through them. It was a split second later that the clamor of the battle returned, and she thought for a moment that they were still running for their lives. Moans and cries of pain suffocated Hermione's ears as men, women, children, and even magical creatures lay wounded on the ground; many looked to be dead already, though the agonizing sounds escaping their mouths contradicted that assumption. Others sobbed over their dying loved ones, wails of anguish and grief a cacophony that grated on her sensitive ear drums. She felt George drop her hand, and watched as he ran towards a small group of students. She thought maybe she recognized them from Dumbledore's Army, but their faces were out of place here against this backdrop of torment and misery.

It was clear that they were meant to feel safe here on this side of the shield. The danger was minimal since Death Eaters and anyone with ill intent could not penetrate it, and there even appeared to be stretchers set up to triage the wounded. But Hermione could not reconcile suddenly being safe, yet still only a few feet from danger. She searched her mind for any semblance of logic to expedite her next course of action and came up with nothing. Her thoughts scattered like chaff in the wind, and she struggled to grab onto any one of them before they floated off without her. Unable to rely on reasoning, she was lost. Fight and Flight battled inside of her, and she could only stand frozen while one out-willed the other. Simultaneously fearful and relieved, Hermione did not know whether to run or hide, and it paralyzed her. She stood rooted to the spot where George had left her and stared blankly at the horrible scene in front of her, completely detached as if an observer and not a participant in the battle.

People scurried and moved around her as if in slow motion. She could have been there for a few minutes or a few hours, but she did not know which. All time had ceased while she tried to gain a sense of understanding of what was happening.

A student whirred past her, knocking into her shoulder and spinning her on the spot. Now, she was looking towards the gates. She could no longer see the flaming remains of the Castle, and instead watched everything on the opposite side of the shield where shadows swayed, the background hazy and opaque. She tilted her head towards the shadows, attempting to discern what the figures were, but she could only make out the shield's perimeter. It stood glittering before her as if revealing its secrets to her - the light catching just right to show her the magic that it was composed of.

And in an instant she was back inside Hogwarts castle.

Her favourite table in the library was a strong solid oak, the edges worn and top scratched, but it was the ideal size for her to spread out the amassed collection of tomes and scrolls in just the way she liked. The scent of parchment and ink filled her, comforting. Hermione was sitting at her beloved table, legs crossed at the ankle, an array of parchment fanned out before her, each page covered in her small, neat script. Fifth year was a particularly strenuous one, and she spent a lot of time here, thinking and pouring over her textbooks attempting to absorb as much of it as possible. She was desperate to get all O's on her O.W.L.'s, and spent the majority of her nights revising here. The sunlight poured through the large windows above her as it did precisely this time each day while it moved to the west to nestle into the horizon. She always rushed here after dinner to make sure she secured this spot for herself, and no one else. Surely, if anyone were to discover the perfection that made up this study space, they would be hexing her to keep it. Even the drafty air of the lofty library settled around her in a soothing way; it was cool and refreshing, like rain on a summer's day, and it invigorated her senses and sharpened her mind. Hermione loved this spot, and she did her best thinking here. Looking up to the vacant space in front of the window, she let her eyes and mind wander as she had done so many times before. The dust that collected on the tops of the shelves and in the bindings of neglected books swirled and danced in the sunbeam lighting her revisions. She lifted her fingers and toyed with the sunbeam that flooded through the window, manipulating the dust this way and that. It had always been so fascinating to Hermione that dust could not be felt, but still be always present. If she tilted her head just so, and caught the light in just the right way, she could see the dust fluttering down to come to rest on the pages in front of her. Her fingers found no trace of it on the parchment, though she knew it was there. Light had a habit of doing that; of illuminating the unseen. She adjusted to lounge comfortably into her chair as her fingers composed a dance with the dust, and the cooling draft of the library fell around her once more.

Her palm pressed into the relaxing cooling sensation, and all too quickly she realized she was not in her library at her favourite spot, but in fact standing outside the gates of Hogwarts, outside of the shield. The shield was also the unseen. She cocked her head to the left, and the sun's rays caught it at just the right angle, exposing its borders. The shield glittered in the sunlight, just like her dusty sunbeam. It was a beautiful magic, and she stood admiring it with a palm resting gently upon it. Curiosity grabbed ahold of her senses, her mind too numb to sense the danger, and she pressed her fingers through the shield towards the battle. The tingling cool sensation ignited her forearm as the fiery image of Hogwarts manifested itself before her. Through the hole her hand created in the shield, she could see Death Eaters running, more victims falling, and a few fleeing towards the gates... towards the shield... towards her. They were fleeing towards her! At the forefront was the massive form of Hagrid, barreling expediently. Her mind snapped back to reality in a frenzy, a sudden awareness of where she was and what was happening washed over her. Fear took hold of her body as the reaction caught up with her mind's understanding. Just in time, she jumped out of the way, nearly being toppled over by the half-giant.

Hagrid continued to thunder past everyone to a group off to the side of the lane. He handed over what Hermione now noticed was a body to a man she didn't recognize. She heard Hagrid say, "Take 'er to the castle. They'll fix 'er right up."

Hermione wondered momentarily why they would be taking anyone to the Castle as it was nearly a heap of ash at this point, but she didn't have the presence of mind about her to focus on it. The unfamiliar man held the body in his arms and Disapparated on the spot, leaving Hermione to watch as Hagrid turned and headed back to the shield, presumably to try to rescue anyone else he could. She didn't think to look at who the body belonged to. The identities of the wounded blurred into faceless, nameless blobs at this point, and perhaps it was better that way.

"Minerva, Hagrid," a strong voice beckoned the two Professors from their current tasks. The voice was close to where Hermione stood, frozen again. She watched as Hagrid came closer to the voice. Brain and body still detached, it took her a while to recognize that the voice who spoke to them belonged to Kingsley Shacklebolt. His normal regal, dark purple robes were torn and threadbare, one sleeve ripped completely from its seam, hanging oddly from his elbow. He was standing just a few feet away from her.

Her old Head of House limped towards him. Her once black hair, now streaked with silver and dust, fell from her usually tidy chignon in an unkempt pile around her shoulders. The robes she wore were tattered and soaked with blood in places, and she was holding her arm against her side in such a way that made Hermione wonder if she had a few broken ribs. She had known Professor McGonagall for many years now, and often saw her after class hours in her house coat and slippers solving some crisis or hysteria, but this was the worst Hermione had ever seen her. In spite of the disheveled state of her robes and acute pain that affected her movement, the older woman still radiated composure. She was strong, and Hermione watched in awe as she moved about instructing students to grab rusty tins - Portkeys it appeared - as they disappeared from sight.

"Minerva, please help the rest of the students out of here," Kingsley spoke again, his booming voice ringing in her ears. "The shield won't hold for much longer."

The group now stood right beside her, and she turned her head to follow their eyes. Together they observed a ripple break through the the calm opaqueness of the shield. It reminded Hermione of the way a still pond would swell after a pebble had been thrown in. Ron taught me how to skip rocks at the lake in the Forest of Dean last month, she recalled sadly. The memory didn't quite penetrate her heart which felt numb and tingly as if she had put it in an ice bath awaiting transplant. She would need a new heart to replace this one; she wasn't even sure it was still beating.

Shacklebolt continued to address Hagrid and McGonagall urgently. "When that shield comes down, whoever is left here will need to fight for their lives. The Death Eaters are not giving up, and they currently outnumber us." Despite his dilapidated state, Kingsley was commanding and authoritative, and Hermione found herself wanting to follow him, to be guided by his words.

"We need to regroup," he pressed, "and get these people to safety. The people who are coming through the shield are less and less, and if we wait for the last few we will miss our chance to save the many."

Turning to Hagrid, he asked, "What is it looking like on that side? Are there many left we can help or is my assessment correct?"

Hagrid looked down at the ground, shaking his shaggy head in answer. "No. S'no good. The ones that can't run are bein' killed. The Death Eaters aren't leavin' anyone alive."

Looking at the scene around him, Kingsley nodded in confirmation of his decision. "Let's start to clear out, and we'll just leave a few to guide the stragglers to safety." He steered McGonagall gently by the shoulders as he spoke, turning her towards a group of students. "Minerva, get these people to the castle." Over his shoulder he addressed the half-giant. "Hagrid take the creatures, and get them up to the mountains."

Hermione remained in her spot, boots firmly planted in the damp earth, hands hanging loosely at her side. Any thoughts that came through were disjointed and muddled, and she could not be bothered to make sense of them. Instead, she watched in childlike fascination as a small goldfinch hopped on one foot through the blood stained gravel of the entryway path. She bent down to put her finger out and welcomed the bird to perch onto her hand. It hopped on without hesitation onto a wobbly foot, and she brought it close to her nose to whisper, "You're another casualty of battle too." It should have struck Hermione as odd to be so concerned for the one legged bird, but at this moment, her heart was so fractured she only had room for this small creature and no one else. She walked a few paces to set the bird on the branch of a bush where it fluttered its wings appreciatively and took flight.

Hagrid was moving towards three house elves sitting in the grass, where they were nursing a wounded elf who was staring blankly at the sky. He stopped abruptly and met Hermione's eyes briefly in recognition. Turning to Kingsley he hollered, "Eh, Kings! I think that's Hermione standing right there. Everythin' alright 'ere Hermione?"

Kingsley spun on the spot towards where Hagrid stood staring. He rushed forwards, firm hands catching hold of her by the shoulders, imploring her to look up into his dark face. "Hermione, are you hurt? Do you need any medical attention?" His voice sounded far away, like it was underwater, and she realized with the strangled sound that she might be in a bit of shock. He put his arm around her and began to guide her away from the shielded gates.

Still feeling confused, she shook her head in the negative to his questions while she looked back at the shield. Her feet moved mechanically beside his. "Kingsley... what is this?" she finally managed to speak through the disorientation, and when she did the dam in her mind burst with clarity. The flood of hundreds of questions attempted to spill out at once, and she heard herself ask one of them, "How did we get through, but the Death Eaters aren't?"

Shaking his head he replied quietly, bending his mouth close to her ear so only she would hear, "There's no time to explain right now. I'm sending you to Shell Cottage. The other Order members are already there." Kingsley picked up the butterbeer bottle from the pile of rubbish at his feet, and held his wand to it whispering, "Portus." The bottle momentarily glowed icy blue, activating the Portkey, as Kingsley lifted his head searching the crowd for a particular face. "Ah, George, come. You and Hermione need to take this Portkey. I have it timed to leave in two minutes." Hermione felt dazed, and stared in disbelief at such a simple solution as a Portkey to a Weasley residence being their salvation.

"Wait, what about Katie and Lee and the others?" George pressed, gesturing around at the few students sitting on the dirt covered stones of the path that led to Hogsmeade. "Seamus is hurt, and Katie is still in shock... They need help."

"They will go to Kilchurn Castle where we have set up a safe house," Kingsley insisted, his tone firm. "Madam Pomfrey is already there along with other capable people that can help care for the wounded. They will be safe." He bent his head to lean close to George and Hermione whispering, "We don't know who we can trust right now."

"That's bollocks! We know you can trust them," George replied incredulously, shock colouring his tone. He looked over to Hermione for agreement, and she nodded, unsure of what was being insinuated.

Kingsley shook his head again. " We have to make sure everyone is safe, and risking Order members during the confusion is not an option. Kilchurn Castle isn't far from here, and it has every protection we could place on it. Minerva is the Secret Keeper. Right now, I need you to get to Shell Cottage. Your parents are waiting for you."

George still looked ready to argue, but the Portkey began to glow again, and Kingsley roughly shoved it into George's chest gesturing for Hermione to touch it, and they disappeared.

The already uncomfortable pulling sensation of traveling by Portkey was made all the worse by the aching dead feeling inside her chest. She had to face Mrs. Weasley and take another son away from her. I can't do this, Hermione thought to herself briefly in the disorientation of the swirl pulling her body. All too soon, her feet hit ground only to have her legs give way, and she rolled to the ground with George. She stood with the aid of the hand he offered, and noted they had landed about a hundred yards from the Cottage. The sloping, sand covered dunes partially blocked the small house from view, revealing only the shell covered roof and two tall smoke stacks.

She could hear the rhythmic waves of the sea splashing onto the beach. The air, thick with salt, tickled her nose, and the sensation briefly reminded Hermione of her time here with Harry and Ron, recovering from the Cruciatus and planning their great vault break-in. She couldn't suppress the faint smile that tugged at her lips with the memory. We made the best team. The warmth, which accompanied the thought of her best friends, passed through her as quickly as it had arrived. She shivered as her heart sent bone chilling ice through her veins, returning her to a carefully guarded state of numbness.

She glanced at George standing beside her, and followed his eyes to where he was looking towards the Cottage. His hickory brown eyes, normally alight with mischief and spirit, were cold and dark as if someone had walked inside his heart and turned out the light. His face looked so strange with the grimace it held. It occurred to her, she had rarely seen his cheeks so hollow as they were usually pulled tight with a smile and framed in laugh lines. She imagined her own tawny brown eyes now resembled decaying wood. They, whoever they are, say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and Hermione's soul certainly felt dead enough. Her heart ached with pain, persistent in its reminder that she was still alive. She didn't understand how she was still breathing, though.

Doesn't my heart have to beat to live?

The pair stood together in silence, staring at the swaying grasses as the gentle breeze swept over them, the scent of sea lavender carrying in the wind. The pain in her chest that demanded her attention with each beat of her heart never went away, but somehow it didn't break her down either. Amazingly, George it seemed, was holding himself together as well. She drew upon his strength and fortified her knees that were weakly attempting to hold the weight of her exhausted frame made heavier by the emotions pressing upon her.

"GEORGE! Hermione! Is that you?!" a deep voice broke their stillness from far away. They could hear other muffled voices headed their direction. George turned to Hermione, their pain mirrored in each other eyes, and a silent question was both asked and answered. No, she would never be ready for this. His sad eyes nearly broke every ounce of her fortitude, but she felt him grab her hand and somehow managed to suck back in the outpouring that threatened to take control. A single tear slipped past her lashes, and they began to walk towards the voices.

Charlie, the second eldest Weasley son met them first. Mr. Weasley was only a few paces behind, followed by Bill, the eldest Weasley and Secret Keeper of Shell Cottage. "Oh, George, it is you. We were getting rather worried. Come to the house, Mum is…" Charlie stopped mid-sentence at the sight of the pair.

Mr. Weasley looked from Charlie's gaze to the two broken faces. "Hermione, where's Ron?"

The anguish inside her body, her heart, her soul could no longer be contained. It left her like a dragon breathes fire - hot, painful, uncontrolled. She crumbled to the sand, gasping for air as the tears flowed forcefully, flooding her mouth and face and neck with the hot, salty, mucusy offerings of her despair.

Her heart did beat; it beat so painfully she wanted to claw at her flesh and break her ribs apart just to grab her heart and throw it away.

She tried to bury herself in the sand, taking the jagged granules and scraping them over her skin to abate the pain. Anything to not have to feel this agony. She wanted to die here, in this hole she would dig for herself, alone. Just let me alone.

Hermione was completely lost inside herself, the grief overtaking her. If people were talking to her, she did not hear them. The only sound that permeated her was the waves crashing upon the shore. Over and over, without ceasing, they broke. And it was as if she was there in the ocean's depths, drowning. Her sense of direction disoriented by the grief tugging and pulling at her, keeping her down under the water. There was no light here, nothing to indicate the surface through the salt-wet tears drowning her. They continued to submerge her into her watery grave, and she wanted to go with them. She wanted to follow her grief into the black darkness, and never look back. It felt as if her lungs were filling with water, the pressure building with every breath, causing a new panic to overwhelm her. How can I live in a world without them? My Harry. My Ron. Who am I without two thirds of the trio?

A set of strong arms scooped her from the ground, pulling her out of her ocean of misery to the surface. The water still covered her nostrils and coated her tongue, salty and heavy and full of sorrow.

"Let... me... down," Hermione protested feebly through ragged breaths, trying unsuccessfully to wiggle free of her captor's hold. She didn't want to leave. She just wanted to drown, or bury, or die.

Her efforts were defeated easily by the capable arms restraining her own. The arms squeezed tighter, holding her firm in place as lips came close to her ear. She could feel the breath on her face, and before she could reach up to bat it away, he whispered, "I want my heart to stop too."

Her breath tore itself from her lungs as the words washed over her soul laid bare. The voice belonged to George, and he was in the Ocean of Grief with her, struggling against his own misery and pain. He had dragged her by the wrist to the surface, and forced the water from her lungs with the vice of his hold. He had breathed life into her mouth by the pain in his heartbreaking words. And with those words, her body slackened against him, the now silent tears still wringing themselves from her limp form. She didn't have to fight against the depths anymore, George had carried her from them.

Hermione's body was too weak to support itself, and she lifted her arms to hook around the back of his neck, and buried her face into his chest. He lifted her by the knees into his secure arms and carried her with him as he walked. Hermione clenched her eyes tightly, and breathed deeply as George's presence calmed the sea of torment sloshing around inside of her.

She could tell they were inside now because the air had stopped moving, and the shifting light behind her closed lids turned dark. The smell of beef and baking tart overwhelmed her senses, and she was sure she would retch. Hermione obscured her face against George's chest once more and didn't protest when he sank to the floor, still cradling her against him. She didn't have any strength left in her to fight anyways. His body was warm, and she was so very cold - might have even been dead except for the thundering pulse in her ribs she very much longed to cease. Just stop beating, she willed her heart grimly, I can't do this without them.

Her breathing was rough, and she noticed the last few tears roll from her jaw, her soul completely emptied and numb once more. She peeked her face up to see that he had sat them in a corner at the end of the hallway, away from the bustle of the others in the house. The din still permeated the air, and if she could have, she would have cast a Silencing Charm so they didn't have to hear what was happening in the room beyond them. I don't want to be here.

The reassuring pressure of George's arms around her back kept her from slipping back into the depths of her Grief Ocean, grounding her to whatever semblance of reality existed here now. The waves that crashed over her started to fade, and her mind began to clear.

Mr. Weasley's voice echoed down the narrow hall as he spoke calmly to his wife. "Molly, dear, I think you should come sit down."

Hermione imagined a worried Molly pacing in front of the stove, sweat gathering in her frizzy red hair as she stirred frantically, determined to busy herself with feeding the masses.

"Bill, get your mother some tea," Arthur spoke again, this time to his son. His voice was closer now, having moved from the kitchen and into the sitting room beside them. She thought she detected a twinge of pain hidden there in the calm of his voice. Under his breath he told Bill, "And add a splash of brandy."

Hermione's heart still beat under her ribs, pain aching through her with each pulse. She breathed deeply, inhaling George's scent. The singed collar of his robes smelled of smoke, no doubt from stray hexes, but it was overwhelmingly similar to the twin's Wildfire Whizbangs that they set off in the Great Hall during O.W.L.s. Hermione began to giggle at the association, but the inappropriate reaction caught in her throat on its way out. The twin's fireworks. The twins who were no longer Fred & George, but just George. Her heart felt like it was torn open all over again, raw and burning. A new wave of grief splashed over her head as the tears fell heavily once more.

Molly's shrill voice rang through the small cottage, and it rattled the walls as she yelled, "Arthur Weasley, don't you dare treat me like a child!"

Hermione's tears made a hasty retreat at the shock of Molly's outburst, and she tilted her head forward to look at the scene unfolding in the room beside them.

"I know that someone came in," Molly demanded, rounding on her husband. Apparently she had refused to sit per his request. "Who is it?" she trailed off as she began to take a mental inventory of the locations of each of her children. "We're still waiting for Percy, Ron..." the words tangled in her throat as she tried not to say Fred, "... and George."

Mrs. Weasley began pacing the small room, worrying her hands along the seam of her robes. Her hair was a mass of wild curls around her head, and there was a red, angry welt across her right cheek. Her once mint green coloured robes now resembled a moss covered swamp. Hermione watched in horror as the witch's face crumpled into a distraught grimace and burned redder than a fire engine. "You - tell - me - right - this - minute, Arthur Weasley!"

She continued, the anger and fear breaking itself from her in a piercing scream. "Was it one of our boys?"

Hermione felt the cramped room fall into a stillness as their collective breath held in anticipation of hopefully positive news. The panic of the truth soon to be spoken out loud enveloped her. She focused on George's heart beating underneath her cheek, steady and strong. He was alive. She was alive. We are alive, she repeated to herself over and over. She melted into his chest a bit more, letting the timing of his heart beat set the pace of her own, the expanding of his lungs encouraging the normal pace of hers. He tensed underneath her, instinctively gripping her shirt in his hands, and pulling her closer into him. She felt something wet fall down past her ear and soak into her shoulder. He was crying into her hair, and Hermione struggled to imagine what his face would like with tears on it, but could not tear her eyes away from Molly in order to look.

Arthur grabbed his pacing wife by the shoulders. "Molly, STOP! Listen to me!" The tone in his voice halted her steps and she looked up into his eyes, uncertain. Loosening his grip, the grief-stricken blue eyes of Arthur looked into the eyes of his beloved wife. He spoke the most heart wrenching words Hermione could imagine, "Ron is gone."

And she broke. Drowning again in her Ocean of Grief, Hermione sobbed into George's chest. The sounds in the room escaped her, and it was just her here, crumbling under the weight of everything she had lost. She vaguely felt George moving to stand, and hardly registered being placed onto the cushions of a couch.

Hermione let the water drag her under, let it consume her. She had no business living in a world where Ron didn't. Where Harry didn't. She stopped fighting, and purged her shattered soul into the white cushion where she wept, curled in on herself like a child.

"But… but who…but... he..." Molly struggled with words that wouldn't come, and the couch began to shake with the quaking of her sobs. Her tormented cries filled the room as they dislodged themselves with force from her throat; the sound pierced Hermione in her gut. She felt responsible for this, for Ron. Guilty for all of the pain this woman, who was very much a mother to her, was feeling.

George was sitting between them, one hand holding his mother's and one pressing into Hermione's hair, her face still buried in the seat, tears saturating the cushions. Arthur's strangled cry broke above them where he held Molly, and Hermione felt the crushing weight of George covering her back where he drenched her in his own misery. Together they fell into the endless depths of their Ocean of Grief. Two hearts, broken beyond repair, knitting themselves together in their despair.

Minutes passed to hours as she emptied herself into the vast waters. She let herself be tossed this way and that in the current with the ever present George floating alongside her. Together they lost themselves in the depths, and eventually she let all consciousness escape her. Coming to, Hermione realized she must have fallen asleep in the midst of her drowning. She was grateful, and closed her eyes again hoping to fall helplessly back into slumber where she couldn't be reminded of the pain she felt; the pain which shred apart the fibers of her soul.

She hazily took in her surroundings. There was a soft blanket draped over her body, and the cushions her face was pressed against were damp. Listening intently, she could hear sounds of the waves from what she assumed was an open window, and the sniffling of someone softly crying coming through them. Raising her head, she realized she was alone in the living room now, and sat up wondering where everyone was.

On shaky legs, she slowly made her way through the door adjoining the living room into the kitchen. Mrs Weasley stood next to the stove, her back to Hermione as she stirred a pot of what smelled of beef and dumpling stew. Hermione turned, prepared to leave the grieving woman alone, but was interrupted as Arthur blocked her exit.

"Hermione, I'm so glad you're awake now. I hope you didn't mind us giving you a sleeping draught."

Shaking her head, she tried to remember taking a potion, but couldn't recall anything of the sort. Arthur, misunderstanding her movement, added, "Good, you needed the rest."

"How long have I been asleep?" she asked Mr. Weasley.

Coming around the table, Mrs Weasley approached her placing a bowl of leftover cottage pie on the table. "Hermione, dear. You've been asleep for over twenty-four hours; you must be starving. Sit, I will get you something to drink."

Hermione watched as the woman, who was a surrogate mother of sorts, turned and hurried to the fridge. Her robes were now clean and her hair was pulled up, but Hermione noticed her eyes were swollen and red rimmed, and there were wrinkles imbedded in her apron from worrying her hands in it, the already worn edges fraying further. She set a glass of juice in front of Hermione and prodded her gently on her shoulder. "Eat, dear. You need your strength."

Hermione, in her weakened state, couldn't even pick up her spoon to initiate scooping a bite into her mouth. The feeling of her empty stomach shrinking in on itself matched the feeling of her crumbling heart. She was violently nauseous with both the thought of eating food, and the thought of going on with living as if nothing had happened. How can I just sit here and eat when they are dead?

The back door opened then, and Bill came in. "Kingsley just sent a Patronus. He will be here tomorrow evening to discuss the events and where we will go from here. He is bringing others with him. We should expect to have some long term guests."

Hermione wondered who else was here already. Who was Kingsley bringing? Who else had been lost? The Weasley's continued conversing without including her in the conversation, and she was grateful. She didn't want to talk to anyone anyways. While she sat and tried to calm her stomach enough to take a bite of the should-be-comfort food, she caught bits and pieces of their conversation. These people talked casually of what had happened, and what they supposed the plans were for the future. Things like, "We will have to gather the troops. Maybe Hagrid can appeal to the giants again," and, "It will be nice to visit with Percy, I haven't seen him in ages," reached her ears.

Hermione suddenly found herself angry. Was it not just a day ago that they lost loved ones? Their own sons and brothers? Yet, here they acted like it didn't matter. She didn't want to suppress the agony she was living in just because there was still work to do. She couldn't. How could she pretend the world wasn't crumbling around her? She was supposed to drown in her misery, not sit here and make small talk.

Pushing herself roughly from the table, her chair scraped loudly along the stone floor. She stormed across the kitchen and out the back door, leaving it to slam forcefully against the wooden frame. She vaguely heard Mrs Weasley shout out, "But Hermione, dear, you haven't even touched your food…"

She found herself fuming, and for the first time in over a day she welcomed this new sensation. It was much easier to feel her anger bubbling under her skin, rather than the ragged feeling of fear or pain. This feeling overwhelmed her senses, and she let it take control. She lengthened her stride, the pull in her muscles aching in relief, as she ran for what felt like hours down the wet of the beach. She eventually made her way up the side of a sloping sand dune. The sand shifted under her feet as she struggled up, and one step turned to three, but she pushed through seeking refuge in the burn in her lungs and the soreness in her body. When she reached the top she sat down, knees tucked to her trunk and arms folded around them,and faced the ocean away from the Cottage. There was a cramp in her stomach that made it hard to catch her breath, but she felt alive for the first time in days as the burn of her anger seethed through her. She must not have run very far, since she could still hear the commotion of the house, but she focused instead on the sound of the waves crashing against a nearby cliff. She listened to the seagulls as they called to each other, and wondered if they felt pain when one of their fellows perished.

Hermione sat there for hours, letting her brain over think, and letting her anger lead her thoughts. She continued to sit there even as the sun began to set, turning the soft blue to vibrant pink and bright orange in a brilliant display over the sea. Even the sun seemed to be angry as it painted the sky with fire. As darkness drifted up, overtaking the light, she remained in her spot on the cooling sand. The pang in her food starved stomach overtook the pain in her forlorn heart. The anger escaping her finally, she was left with a throbbing head and a mouth so dry it felt like she had been eating the sand. She didn't notice when it began to grow colder, but the breeze carried a chill that made her body start to shiver and brought her mind back to this place; this place where she sat on the sandy hill, this place where she swam in thoughts and feelings that pulled and pushed until she was drained.

She hadn't noticed someone had approached until the sand shifted underneath her. George adjusted himself next to her, legs crossing at the ankles and leaning backward on his hands. "Going to stay out here all night?"

She glanced sideways at the man, a man she hardly took notice of before, but somehow seemed to gravitate towards her now. They had been tossed together roughly during the life altering events of the last two days. He was there beside her in these big moments where big feelings demanded to be felt. They felt them together. It occurred to her how odd, and out of place it was to see him sitting here next to her without his side kick twin making a joke with him. His eyes that always sparkled with life looked sunken and haunted. She sniffed slightly and inhaled the scent of spice and shampoo that carried on the gentle breeze floating between them. She noticed he was clean; his hair no longer hung around his face in dirty curtains but was brushed back and fluffy. His clothes were once again clean, and there was a small scar on his forehead that she assumed had been recently healed.

Looking down at herself, she took inventory of her appearance for the first time. Her jeans were torn at the knee, and blood soaked through the frayed edges. Her palms were covered in tiny scrapes, and her nail beds throbbed from being packed so tightly with black soot and dirt. She noticed the shirt she was wearing stunk of blood and sweat. Reaching up to touch her hair, she realised that, for once, it was not frizzy, but matted to her head in unruly knots from grease and grime.

She looked away from him, huffing while crossing her arms, feeling the ebb of anger begin to simmer again. "Why are you here, George?" she snapped, a little too harshly.

"They sent me to get you, of course," he said as he reclined back on the sand hands behind his head. "When we were kids, we'd come here on Holiday to visit my aunt. Fr-" he stopped, his voice thick, but trudged on, "Fred and I… we always loved climbing the dunes and watching the stars. We planned many of our best hijinks on top of this very hill."

Hermione's simmering anger dissipated immediately, only to be replaced with a deep sadness for all that George had lost. He has, perhaps, suffered the most of all of us. A chill seeped into her bones. The cold reminded her that though she felt she were dead, she was still very much alive. She leaned back slowly, wrapping her arms together as a pillow under her head. The stars really were amazing up here; they shone so bright against the black of the sky and twinkled as if inviting them to come up to the heavens to play.

"You can't see stars like this in the city. There's so much light pollution, and even when you drive to the country it's never dark enough," she offered. Filling the awkwardness of silence with random facts had always been her specialty. In reality, she didn't know what to say to George. He had just lost his most intimate friend and partner in crime; his twin. There are no words to fill that void; nothing she could possibly say to appeal to the broken state of his heart. She wanted to tell him that she understood even a fraction of what he was feeling, and that she was broken too. But he knew. He saw her, and she was comforted, if only selfishly, that she didn't need to explain herself to him. "George, how did we get here?" she breathed, the dejection in her voice painfully acute.

A tear escaped her lashes, slowly falling down her cheek, but was quickly brushed away before finding it's way to the sand. She looked over to George, his fingers still close, waiting for the next drop. She couldn't look away; his hickory eyes held hers intently and echoed the pain she felt too. She could swear she heard the way his heartbeat against his chest, stuttered and broken.

"Hermione, come down to the house," he said gently, almost as a whisper. "Eat and bathe. I'll keep them from you, for now," he assured her. It was the one thing she needed the most right now - solitude. And with that, George was rescuing her again.

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 **~ Thank you for all of the follows and favorites this week. We are so encouraged by the outpouring of support this story is receiving! And a thank you to our two lovely readers fncmullin and I was BOTWP. We love reading your reviews each chapter! ~**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** *deep breaths* Are we all okay? We know that last chapter was…heavy, to say the least. Thank you for hanging in there with us and these characters while they deal with some of the hardest losses imaginable. We promise this is a Dramione story, and it will be a happy middle and ending for both of them. The both of us are fluff fanatics, and we love our HEA, so please do not fret. ;) It is going to take us a few more chapters (and we can't guarantee, at this point, how many it will be) to give Draco & Hermione all of the growth and healing they deserve before they meet.

This chapter is dedicated to the lovely Ariel Riddle. Thank you for your love and support and for pushing us to be better writers! Her WIP "A Past Erased" is an awesome Dramione filled with action, angst and lemons. She writes some amazing Tomiones too!

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 **CHAPTER FIVE**

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Hermione awoke from her sleep slowly. The dawn's morning light poured through the window sills and pressed against her eyelids. It was a soft beckoning as the unconscious gave way to something in between as the hazy remnants of dreams faded to nothing. A muted, salty breeze fluttered past the young tendrils of hair framing her face, and she breathed deeply as she stretched her arms above her head, eyes still closed. Her right hand bumped into the metal frame of the bed, and the elbow of her left into something soft. Someone soft.

She was snapped quickly from her sleepy reverie into the stark awareness of shock and fear. Toppling off of the edge of the bed with a thump, she inhaled sharply, and quickly pulled herself to her feet, wand in hand, aimed at the stranger's heart. The mussed red hair of George lay fanned across the pillow beside hers. The bed was pushed up against the wall, and his back propped against it with his body angled slightly towards her. His arm rested limply across the bed where her shoulders used to be. She stood frozen in the fear of what had transpired the night before, but as she racked her mind, she came up with nothing. She had no memory of anything inappropriate happening, and, in fact, was comforted to realise she was still fully dressed in the pyjamas Fleur had lent her the previous evening after her bath. George, too, was wearing a flannel set and he rested on top of the messy duvet, not underneath it.

With a deep breath of relief, Hermione crawled back under the duvet and nestled herself on top of George's outstretched arm. When she did this, George curled his arm, pulling her closer to him; she initially tensed in resistance, but eventually relaxed, allowing herself to be held by him. His breath remained even and steady, and it seemed this was just an automatic reaction in the midst of sleep and not a conscious one. She took notice of her unexpected bedfellow's appearance. His face was serene, and his eyes were puffy and reddened around the edges with sleep. His cheeks were stained with tear tracks, and it was clear he had been crying at some point recently. Hermione curled herself closer to his chest, inhaling his scent - cinnamon and cayenne, equally sweet and spicy. Her skin tingled in an unfamiliar way as she was pressed against his hard and lean upper body. She found she fancied the feeling of his breath against her face and relaxed with the consistent rhythm of it. Feelings of security settled themselves around her with the warmth of being close to someone, and she pulled the covers up to her chin, breathing in the comforting scent of sea lavender and salt that carried through the air seeming to imbed itself into every fabric of this home.

Hermione felt oddly relaxed for the first time in a long time. For just a few moments, waking up here, in the company of a familiar friend, was peaceful. Whatever happened over the last few days, George had been a lifeline of sorts to her, and she felt a distinct pull towards him, as if gravity was forcing them together without their permission. But even without her permission, she wanted to follow it. George knew her in a way that no one else really had; she didn't need to explain herself to him, because he was right there with her, drowning and struggling and dying and vying for the shore. George was alone without Fred, and Hermione was alone without Harry and Ron. But they were alone together, and for now that was enough. With a muted hum and a few more breaths, Hermione closed her eyes, once more, and drifted into a tranquil and relaxed sleep.

The next time Hermione awoke it was to the gentle movement of the bed underneath her. She thought for a moment it was the sand shifting as George settled into the space beside her on the dune, but as she opened her eyes she realised he was trying to crawl over the foot of the bed, presumably without waking her.

"'Morning," Hermione intoned with a croak, her vocal chords not quite used to speaking yet. George turned to face her with a soft, hesitant smile tugging at his lips. She sat up a bit, resting on her elbows.

"Morning." He shifted on his feet a bit awkwardly, and looked at the floor sheepishly with a blush. "I didn't want to wake you…I-"

"It's okay, George," she interrupted. "I just… erm… can you fill me in on what happened last night?" A deep blush crawled from the back of Hermione's neck to cover her chest and cheeks. Merlin, this was uncomfortable. She rushed to explain herself before he got the wrong idea. "I don't mean to insinuate anything untoward had occurred. Obviously, you are a trustworthy gentleman... I just…er, why are you here?" She let out a shaky breath that sounded almost like a laugh.

George exhaled, and relief flooded his freckled face. "I didn't want you to be angry, that's why I was sneaking out," he explained. Crossing back toward the side of the bed, he sat cautiously on the edge beside her. Hermione had pushed herself up and out of the covers, and had both feet planted evenly on the floor over the side of the bed. George turned to face her, and his knee brushed her thigh as he crossed his legs to sit fully on top of the covers. The contact caused a shiver of desire up her spine, and she found she did not shy away from it. His eyes met hers, and he stumbled over the words. "You just… You were... screaming in your sleep, last night." He looked to be considering what he wanted to say next, and Hermione was prepared for the worst. "I came to check on you, and you didn't wake, so I sat here with you... It seemed to calm you down... I must have fallen asleep." George's body language was glaringly uncertain. His gaze searched hers persistently, but his shoulders were slumped, and his fingers were twisting themselves in the folds of the duvet. Hermione couldn't reconcile this ill at ease George with the confident and self-assured one he normally was. She was hopeful that his uneasiness was merely the compromising situation of being found here with her this morning, and not that it was _her_ he was found with. Did her nightmares really make him so uncomfortable? From the sound of it, last night's episode was not as bad as it could have been.

She must not have been too terrifying, though, if he had decided to stay through the night, and she really did find herself grateful for the company. "Thank you, George," she said softly. Hermione caught his eyes and gave him a curt nod in appreciation. "I have bad dreams sometimes since... Bellatrix… especially when I have been stressed, or upset," she muttered under her breath. "I must have forgotten to put up a Silencing Charm last night." The words fell flat as she dropped her head in shame. The unvoiced fears filled the room, and Hermione only hoped he could not feel them too.

"No need to explain. I was happy to do it," he assured her. "I really didn't mean to scare you this morning," George said while he tried to look at her downcast eyes. She flashed a brief, kind smile, before the grimace replaced her normally soft features.

"I am glad you were here. It was … nice to not wake up alone." Hermione blushed again and wiped one hand across her face in embarrassment of the admission. The other hand supported her weight on the bed beside George, and he brushed his fingers over it, letting them curl gently over her fingertips.

She looked from their joined hands up to his face with surprise at the forwardness of the gesture. He had grabbed her hands a few times in the last three days, and it had always been in a moment of complete breakdown. This did not feel like a hand holding hers in comfort while she was crying. It was as if George craved her touch as much as she did his. His sad eyes glowed in a moment of Gryffindor bravery as he said, "You don't ever have to be alone again, Hermione." He brushed a stray curl from her eyes and tucked it gingerly behind her ear. She saw the sincerity painted across his features. A wave of unnamed emotion bubbled up to the surface, and she launched herself into his arms to squeeze him tightly. The force of her hug tossed them backwards on the bed, and they fell together in a tangle while their mirth bounded from them in an uncontrolled fit of laughter. Once laughing, it was hard to stop, and the giggles erupted unceremoniously from her chest. Hermione untangled herself to spread out on her back while she wiped fresh tears of not-quite-joy from the corners of her eyes and calmed her breathing.

Sprawled out beside George, she relished in the high of happy emotions. It had been so long since she had laughed, and she wasn't even sure what they were laughing for, other than her clumsiness, but it felt so wonderful to forget for just a moment. "You really do keep everyone laughing, don't you?" she teased George with a weak shove to his chest.

"Happy to be of service," he quipped with a chuckle, shoulders still shaking at the attempt to catch his breath and calm down.

Hermione sighed in pleasure, the reprieve of laughter a welcome distraction from the heaviness of grief and misery. "Thank you, George, for everything. I mean it." The words came out more seriously than she had intended, shifting the mood noticeably.

His head turned to face her, and his hickory eyes bore intently into hers as if he was peering into her soul. Hermione's breath caught with the intensity of it. He said nothing as the seconds crawled past them while he studied the flecks of gold in her iris. Finally, he broke the silence with a loud grumble in his stomach. A real smile spread across his face, and for the first time in a long time, George looked exactly like himself.

"Breakfast? I'm ravenous." He winked in jest towards her. The double entendre of his word choice was not lost on Hermione, and she barely suppressed a moan. She responded with a roll of her eyes as a goofy smile erupted across her face. Something had changed between them, and she could not help but acquiesce. Apparently, she was in a lot of trouble with this one.

When Hermione finally made her way downstairs for breakfast, with freshly laundered jeans and minty teeth, she noticed the small kitchen table, which normally seated four people, had been extended to fit the entirety of the Order, the walls of the kitchen and living room magically extended to make room with it. It was covered in an array of dishes of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, porridge, and toast. Various jams and marmalades were available at each place setting, no doubt homemade. The Weasleys had greedily filled their plates and were eating with enthusiasm as they waved their forks wildly in telling stories and acting, well, like Weasleys. Hermione tucked herself into the far corner on the end near George, and he slipped a cup of black tea in front of her. She met his eyes with a grateful smile, and slouched into her chair, propping her elbows on the solid oak and resting her chin atop her hands. Her stomach rolled with a new wave of nausea, and she knew she wouldn't be able to eat anything again today. For fifteen minutes, she picked apart a piece of plain toast, none of it making its way to her mouth, and eventually excused herself silently to retreat to her sand dune hideaway.

In the past, it had always been comforting to Hermione to be surrounded by the Weasleys in close quarters like the Burrow, or the Cottage; the family was so large, and they loved with equal measure, welcoming her into their family as a sister. But now, without Ron and Harry, it felt smothering. It was exhausting to be doted over by Mrs. Weasley who had continued to push plates of food in front of her, despite Hermione's insistence that she was not hungry. It was even more weary to be constantly on guard, avoiding the other occupants and the small talk that she had no interest in. Fleur had leaned in at one point to ask if Hermione was interested in borrowing a swimming costume for the water later. She knew the woman was just being a gracious hostess, but Hermione could not stop the incredulous glare at the thought of playing in the ocean at a time like this. Fleur returned a pitying look that made Hermione's stomach wrench. She felt as if her grief was misunderstood by everyone. They all danced around the topic of Harry, Ron, and Fred's deaths and went on as if nothing happened. The sympathetic looks and condescending tones directed towards Hermione left her feeling like more of an outsider than ever.

When she was inside that cottage, sitting beside one red head, or another, sipping tea and trying not to vomit, it was as if every painful memory filled the room and crushed in upon her until she could not breathe. The emotions were too big, and the space far too small. So, she took respite in the openness of the dunes outside where the salty air filled her lungs instead, replacing the smothering anguish every one felt, but no one talked about. Alone, she could cry uninhibited, and for a little while, she could just feel without explanation, or pretense. The dunes reserved their judgement of her, and allowed her to sink into their warmth. She was accepted by them in whatever state of grief she found herself in. At this point, Hermione's mind was a jumble of emotions, fears, and thoughts; each contending for her attention. She vacillated between completely numb and completely overwhelmed with little transition, or warning. Sometimes the tears came hot and fast, drowning her lungs as she clawed at the sand in an effort to breathe. Other times she lay placidly still, imagining she were dead and unable to move a muscle.

While it was easier to be out here than in there, she felt the looming burden of isolation. She knew the walls she had been erecting in selfish preservation were only creating wide barriers between her and the family who longed to comfort her. It wasn't their fault they didn't know what to do with her, because she didn't really know what to do with herself. While she craved solitude, she had equal urges for closeness. Her desire to grieve openly was often overwhelmed with her desire to not feel, and it made for a confusing sort of circumstances within her warring heart. The girl who always had an enlightened plan and walked with the confidence of methodical preparation was now a mess of a contradiction, waffling between this emotion and that, being tossed along the waves without purpose.

Over the course of the day, Hermione escaped to the dunes when the pressure of putting on a polite smile and participating in mindless chit-chat became too much. After a clumsy run in with Mr. Weasley and his attempt to entice her into a game of Wizard's chess, Hermione found herself, once again, avoiding people and sitting at the dunes. She was pulling the grass from its sandy roots and idly shredding the blades. She had buried her legs in the hot sand, allowing the granules to scorch her, so that the primary pain she felt was the burning on her flesh and not the burning in her chest. Everyone in the house was anxiously awaiting the arrival of their guests that evening, and most spent their time running through the events of the battle over and over again, much to Hermione's exasperation. It seemed, for some, the retelling of events was a way to make sense of them, but she wanted no part in it. The ever present sorrow of the Battle and the deaths of her two best friends was oppressive and insistent, and it was all she could do to avoid it.

This hiding spot gave her the prime position to overhear what news she could grasp as people walked by. It was just tidbits here and there, but enough to suffice her yearning to know what was happening while also avoiding contact with anyone. Her natural propensity for collecting knowledge left her curious about the happenings of the Order, but she had no aspiration to be dragged into their plans.

At one point, the late afternoon sun was high in the sky and freckling her shoulders when Mrs. Weasley walked by with Fleur. Hermione listened as the older woman spoke. "Ginny can't function right now. Keep the Sleeping Draught and the Draught of Peace simmering. When she gets to the point where she can get out of bed without screaming and thrashing about then we can begin to lower the dosage."

It occurred to Hermione that she had not yet seen the youngest Weasley girl, and she wondered, now, how she had been coping with Harry's loss. Maybe later this evening when the house was quiet she could sneak into her room and check in on her. The two girls were cut from the same cloth, really. They both suffered a huge deficit with the deaths of two very important men in their lives; Ginny had lost a brother in Ron and a love in Harry, and likewise, Hermione had lost a brother in Harry and a love in Ron. Yes, she understood Ginny's pain far better than she would like to admit, and their sharing in grief later would be incredibly difficult, but perhaps necessary to both of their healing processes.

Hermione worked on weaving lavender crowns from the shredded grass pieces- something beautiful from something broken- to help pass the time and give her hands something to do. Maybe an hour and several crowns later, she overheard as Bill talked with Mr. Weasley a few yards away.

"Charlie left this morning to go to Kilchurn Castle," the younger Weasley spoke. "He is bringing a few of the kids from Dumbledore's Army who resisted the Carrows. I am hoping they will assist the Order."

Arthur's soft spoken voice floated over. "Ah, yes. I saw what the Longbottom boy did with the snake. Definitely a Gryffindor if I have ever seen one!"

"Yes," Bill continued in agreement, "Kingsley suspects he will make a great leader for the youth. They really need someone to model themselves after, and though he is their age, he seems to have ability beyond his years."

Hermione felt incensed with the suggestion. What about Harry? They can't just go replacing him with Neville, as wonderful of a fighter as he is. Harry was the one who sacrificed his childhood to the cause of defeating Voldemort, and had, ultimately, given up his adulthood and _life_ in the completion of that task. He was asked to do far more than he should have, and the Order, it seemed, was ready to toss his memory over for the likes of Neville Longbottom just because he was still alive and had killed a bloody Horcrux.

She stood, kicking up a cloud of sand and dust, and marched with a few leaps down the side of the dune, rushing past the two Weasleys in a huff. Picking up her pace, she ran along the shore where the tide had receded its weathering of the beach, and continued as far her legs would carry her. When her battered and exhausted body had had enough, she collapsed onto the beach and wept. She cried there in the wet sand while the waves crashed over her back, taking her tears with it on the ebb. The shifting sand slid around under her knees, and she sank lower into its clutches. It was only when the sun moved to dip into the horizon that she stood to make her way, slowly, back to the Cottage. She returned to her dune with no inclination to speak to anyone, using her wand to dry and warm herself. Hoping that she could sneak back into the house unnoticed if it were dark out, she waited on top of the hill and watched for twilight to transform into nightfall.

As the first few stars became visible in the nearly-night sky, George climbed his way up the dune to sit beside her, partially obscured from the house by sea lavender. She was still relatively close to the Cottage, but he was the first to have approached her.

"Was that your doing, keeping them away from here?" she asked him, hoping the gratefulness carried in her voice.

"Would you rather I hadn't?" He cocked a brow and smirked back at her. Faint peach colored the ivory of her cheeks at the question. He was teasing her! It occurred very briefly to Hermione that she didn't want to discourage it, so she responded, instead, by nuzzling into the crook of his arm as it snaked around her waist. She breathed in the spicy scent she was starting to associate as George's, and allowed the warmth of his body close to hers to melt some of the icy numbness in her veins.

Messy emotions were all tangled up in this man sitting with her, holding her close. It was in the brave way he saved her, and the delicate way he held her, and the way his eyes pierced through her. It was in their shared Ocean of Grief where she should have been alone, but found he was _always_ right beside her. He pulled her to shore when she wanted to give up, and swam deeply down when she needed to give in. It was in the way he knew her not at all, and all at once. And for once in her life, she just let herself feel it without questioning.

Her heart beat thudded rapidly and loudly in her ears, and she was sure George could hear it over the crashing waves. His breath, she noticed, had sped up a bit, and she wondered if his body had been responding to their proximity, just as she had done. She looked up into his eyes; the dull saddened hickory iris' were thin rings outlining a dark pool of lust, and she could only imagine the fire her own pupils mirrored back to him. Her stomach flip-flopped as she felt him pull her by her hips towards him. Her body pressed flush against his chest and legs sank into the sand on either side of his lap. Their lips crushed together in a violent kiss. It was resolute, and forceful. She took from George and he from her, and she let him. Their tongues tangled messily in a muddle of bumped teeth and bitten lips, and his hands pressed firmly into her back as her nails raked through his hair, leaving scratches in their wake. The dire need to feel anything good, anything real, anything _honest_ pushed itself from Hermione's core, and she buried herself into George's greedy palms. Her hips moved of their own volition, seeking out the evidence of his arousal. Together they moved, hands over clothes, and pressing and pulling without taking a breath. There was no polite love, or tenderness here. This was a covetous passion, an escape from the consuming pain.

Hermione broke the kiss first, desperate for air, and awash with arousal. "George," she stammered out with shallow breaths as lips dragged along her jaw. "George… it's getting dark, and we..." Her words were cut short by the moan that escaped her lips as he sucked on a sensitive spot at her pulse point and shifted his hips up into hers. "Fuck," she insisted, pushing herself upright and breaking most of their contact. "George, we need to go back to the house." All of the feelings she had for George were jumbled, and this kiss just sullied them further.

His eyes briefly flashed with a dejected confusion, and she knew she had hurt him. "Was this… Shit, did you not want this?" His voice sounded accusing and raw.

"No, George," she reassured, hopefully effectively. "Not at all. I want this… and with you. But I don't want to do something we'll regret out here. Not this way, where anyone can see."

She watched his worried expression dissolve into an amiable smile, much to her relief. Hermione entwined her fingers in his, palms pressing together. She rose from his lap, the missing warmth leaving behind a deep ache in her core which she did not want to acknowledge, yet. She yanked him up off of the sand, and the momentum caused him to encircle her waist in his arms to prevent falling over. Their lips met for a brief, chaste kiss.

With fingers interlaced, they headed to the back porch of the Cottage. It was a small porch, barely large enough for the two-person swing that hung there. The whitewashed boards of the narrow deck were weathered smooth, though they were warped with time and humidity.

Hermione flashed George a quick look of uncertainty and pleaded, "I don't think I am ready to go back in there. Mind if I stay and swing for a bit?"

Taking his cue to leave, he leaned in for a peck on her cheek, and opened the screen door with a creak. George bowed dramatically on his way through the threshold and declared with a spirited smile, "M'lady."

She rolled her eyes to distract from the heat in her cheeks with the address. "Out of here with you," she teased as she shoved him playfully in the chest the rest of the way into the kitchen.

Once alone, Hermione settled onto the swinging bench, and she realised she had been smiling. She didn't have the energy to analyze what this change in relationship meant at the moment. It felt good to be wanted, and she was just going to go with that till it didn't feel right anymore. There was enough pain and agony to occupy her thoughts these days, and she would certainly relish the opportunity to forget every once in awhile.

From this spot on the porch, she could listen to the happenings of the kitchen through the screen door. Mrs. Weasley was baking, of course, if the sounds of whisks scraping the bottom of metal bowls and the smells of rising flour were any indication. She was surely preparing a feast to rival Halloween at Hogwarts for their guests who would be arriving any minute now.

Hermione knew the woman only busied herself in the kitchen to ward off the demons that threatened to overwhelm her. Molly was a mother bear, loving, but protective when provoked, and she took great pride in being the one to gather everyone safely in and to offer them a place at her table. Cooking was a practical way she could care for those who were hurting, and now, in the wake of grief, she clung to the safety of her kitchen, because she still had people to rely on her. No one relied on Hermione anymore, not in the way Harry and Ron had. With their friendship, she was useful and had a purpose, and now she was floating adrift.

The fading light soon turned to full black as she swung on the porch, and the stars illuminated in the dark sky for her. She recognized the distinct sound of Apparition, and stilled the swing with the faint drag of her barefeet on the porch and the grating creak of the metal chain as it stopped. Soon, she noticed the dark outlines of a dozen, or so people approaching, but couldn't make out their faces. They didn't notice her as they made their way around the side of the house to the front door, and she breathed out in relief.

She waited in her spot until she heard the sounds of people greeting one another from a distance. Standing, she made her way through the back door and into the kitchen. She had aimed to hide out here in hopes of listening to the conversation going on in the living room without having to actually partake in it. Hermione should have known better than to think she would be able to hide, alone, in the kitchen that boasted of Molly Weasley's cooking.

The matriarch herself came through the door, face flushed as she pulled a tall and lanky man behind her, reprimanding him in her stern motherly voice. "...can't believe you didn't come straight here. What in the world possessed you to go to Kilchurn Castle? You didn't even let us know… had to send Charlie out to look for you. We have been worried sick! You could have been killed!"

"Mum, I'm fine. Let's get back to the living room so we can all have our questions answered."

Hermione noticed the red rimmed eyes, and knew that Percy had likely had only a few hours of sleep in over two days. His normally freshly pressed robes were dirty and wrinkled; clearly they had not been changed. She watched as he pulled his wand from his pocket and levitated a jug of pumpkin juice and mugs from the counter, and walked back out the door without so much as a glance in her direction.

"Ah, Hermione dear. I'm so glad to see you've decided to come to the meeting. Come, help me bring our guests some food," Mrs. Weasley ordered, gesturing to a large basket full of rolls.

Without a valid reason for staying behind, Hermione grabbed the basket and moved towards the door to follow in Mrs. Weasley's wake.

The general greetings had died down when they had entered, and eager hands began to reach for food as questions began to be asked all around.

"Is Voldemort dead?"

"Surely, we can overtake the Death Eaters! Who is in charge of them now?"

"Is Harry really gone?"

The last question was asked quietly from the shadows, but it muted the room as if someone had cast a _Silencio._ All heads turned to see a girl coming down the hallway and into the living room. She limped slightly and held onto the wall for support as she walked; her clean hair hanging down her back in long, flaming tresses.

Mrs. Weasley was up first, leaving her husband's side, and she approached her daughter, grabbing her by the shoulder. "Ginny, dear, you should be in bed. You're not well."

Ginny's eyes were heavy, and dark smudges painted the skin under her lids. She met her mother's gaze as she spat, "I'm not well, because Harry is dead." She faced the people in the room and continued, "All of you people sit here like nothing has happened. The man I loved, the man that gave his life for all of you... and NONE of you even care!" She stomped her foot weakly and threw accusing glares around the room, eyes filling with tears.

Hermione took the opportunity to look around the room and noticed a few people who had not been there earlier for breakfast. The enlarged table, which spanned both kitchen and living rooms, was nearly full. The surrounding couches were all occupied with people as well. Neville Longbottom was sitting on one end of the couch with his face toward the ground, studying his trainers intently. Luna Lovegood sat at the corner of the table, and Dean Thomas was beside her, gripping her hand and pressing it into her thigh to keep her from running to Ginny. Katie Bell sat close to Lee Jordan who was next to George in the middle of the table. He was surrounded by people on each side, so she wasn't keen on going to him. Charlie and Percy Weasley were standing by the front door, and there were a few others that Hermione didn't recognize hovering in the doorway and looking through the banisters on the stairs. Professor McGonagall and Kingsley sat near the head of the table looking altogether uncomfortable. Fleur Weasley rose from her spot next to her husband, Bill, and began to make her way to the kitchen - presumably where the potions, which were used to calm Ginny's outbursts, were being kept. All of the Weasleys watched in trepidation as the youngest of their clan was ready to break.

"YOU!"

Hermione turned to face the voice that barked the word to find that Ginny was pointing her finger at her, eyes wild with hatred. She stood in fear of the little witch, knowing that being on the wrong side of her anger was not wise.

"You were supposed to _help_ him! _You_ were supposed to _be there_ for him! You were _supposed_ to do the same for my _brother_. You should be dead, NOT THEM!" Ginny's scream tore through her vocal cords as spit flew from her lips. Mrs. Weasley could not overpower her daughter's rage, but still attempted to soothe her with a moderate squeeze of the girl's shoulders. Ginny grabbed her mother's wand from her apron pocket and aimed it straight at Hermione, ready to throw a hex.

Hermione was helpless to the taunts the girl was throwing at her. Each word stabbed her already bleeding heart like a hot knife. When Ginny pointed the tip of the wand at her, Hermione merely closed her eyes, hoping for the Killing Curse. She didn't take in the collective gasp that engulfed the room, nor did she notice as Mr. Weasley and Bill restrained the grieving witch. She only realised she was not going to die when a hand wrapped around her back, gripping her upper arm, and turned her towards the front door. She knew those hands and that smell by now; it was the only smell she could inhale without the scent causing her stomach to roll, and she buried her face into George's chest without any hesitation. He was saving her, again.

As George led her away, she steadied herself on his arm. She felt as if the ground was coming out from under her feet, and an overwhelming wave of nausea hit her in the gut. She nearly collapsed from the combined disorientation, but George caught her around the waist helping her to sit on the front steps before her legs gave way. Curling into his lap, she listened for his heart beat. _Thump thump whoosh_ hummed through her ears, and she started to breathe more deeply as her lungs permitted _._ George kept a steady hand on her back, tracing soothing patterns with his palm, and she calmed completely, once more.

They listened through the open windows of house as Ginny kicked and thrashed about, screaming her protests at whomever was attempting to give her a potion. After a few minutes, the noise died down, and the hushed tones began to crawl from the house. Hermione made no attempt to get up from her spot, and George didn't either, so they remained sitting on the wooden steps together.

"I'm so sorry about Ginny. She isn't taking this… Harry... well. Did George get Hermione out?" Mr. Weasley spoke.

"Yes, I saw him take her outside," Neville spoke up. "How is she handling everything?"

"Well, depends on your perspective," Mr. Weasley answered. "She's not needing to be drugged to stay in bed, and she isn't hexing her friends." He sighed, and with a sadness in his voice continued, "But she isn't eating well, or talking to anyone. She hides most of the day, and only George can find her."

"Well, that is to be expected," Minerva spoke clearly. "She has lost what is most dear to her, and so has George."

Percy interrupted, "We are all hurting and have all lost people, but we need to figure out what is happening, and we need to make a plan on how to fight so we don't lose more."

Hermione stiffened, and George pulled his arm around her tighter. A chorus of muttering broke out with a mixture of agreement and disapproval at Percy's lack of compassion and eagerness to plan.

Clearing his throat, Kingsley spoke loudly, promptly diffusing all noise. "While I do grieve for the departed and suffer with the living, Percy is right. We need to make a plan while this is fresh. First things first… The Death Eaters have abandoned Hogwarts. The school is still standing, thanks to the massive amounts of magic that was used to build it. Unfortunately, it is in ruins, and we should not assume it as safe for quite some time."

"Kingsley, were you able to verify the bodies?" She heard Arthur ask, hesitancy in his voice.

Kingsley's answer came out with a stammer. "Yes, Voldemort is dead." He paused before answering the unspoken second question. "And so is Harry."

A moment of silence held heavy in the air before Kingsley began again. "It seems the wand's connection caused the curse to explode outward, and anyone who was in the radius was killed instantly." There were a few gasps and stifled cries as people in the room reeled with the shock of his words. Hermione felt herself suppress a strangled sound that was a cross between a groan and scream.

Kingsley's commanding voice continued on, "Kilchurn Castle is safe, and there are numerous people there, both injured and healthy. Minerva has chosen to stay there and lead a team to take care of wounded, and to look after people that need a safe place. There is plenty of room for as-"

A voice interrupted, which Hermione quickly realized was Neville's. "What about the Ministry and St. Mungo's? Are they safe?"

"I have two teams out to gather information on both locations. The only thing I have heard back is that St. Mungo's is currently safe. No word yet on the team that is scouting the Ministry. I hope to have news on that front in the morning." She heard someone heave a heavy sigh, and assumed it to be Neville, grateful for his parent's safety.

Molly's voice came next, "How are the wounded there?"

This time a new voice spoke up. It was feminine, and Hermione couldn't place it. "Most have minor injuries and breaks, and just need rest." The voice was full of emotion, and she thought she even heard the strain of crying behind it.

Hermione leaned in to ask George who it was. "Katie Bell," he responded quickly in a whisper.

"There is one," Dean's voice came through, cracking and harsh. It was definitely the voice of someone who had been holding back tears. "Seamus Finnigan. He has been injured by a powerful Slicing Hex and has lost a lot of blood. Madame Pomfrey is not familiar with the counter curse. She has been giving him a blood replenishing potion, but with no way to cure the wound, we aren't sure if he will make it." A few girls were crying softly, and murmurs of, "It's okay," and, "He's a fighter," and, "So sorry," carried over their tears.

Bill cleared his throat awkwardly, and asked, "Kingsley, you mentioned we'd have guests. What does that mean, and what do we need to do?"

"I'm glad you asked, Bill. We need a safe place for the Order members apart from the Castle, and for the young ones who are willing to become apart of the Order that came with us today. You are all too valuable to risk if Kilchurn is compromised. We would like Shell Cottage to become the new Official Headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix, to be specific. I know you don't have much room here, and this was supposed to be a temporary safe house, but we have been able to gather a reasonable amount of tents with Extendable Charms already. If you would allow us to set them up, we could find privacy among the dunes while still close enough to discuss strategies."

"Of course, we are more than happy to offer our home as Headquarters," Bill replied briskly without hesitation.

She heard Fleur's unmistakable french accent. "Bill, darling, I theenk zat we should discuss zis more…"

Kingsley spoke over her, immediately halting the conversation between the newlyweds. "With that in place, you lot go set up the tents," Kingsley ordered. "We will resume this meeting when I hear back about the Ministry."

There was general sound of chatter as people stood up, and footsteps could be heard making their way towards the front door. Hermione thought she heard Percy's cry for more information, but she stood and walked away from the porch before she heard the response. She sprinted towards the hill she found her solace in with sand flying behind her in thick curtains. She needed to be away from the people, and away from more questions and more planning.

No one followed her, and for that she was grateful. As her steps lengthened up the steep side of the hill, the memory of Ginny's eyes bored into hers made her head spin. She could feel the anger rolling from Ginny's body as she gave everyone in that room the glare of death. Ginny had reserved a particularly cruel look filled with murderous rage just for Hermione, and a shiver seated itself in her bones at the thought of her friend being capable of the follow through. Hermione mistakenly assumed that they would have been able to bond over their shared experience and pain, but she was apparently the source of Ginny's pain. As the thoughts of what the redhead had said wound through her brain, they also scratched at her soul, making gouges in the nothingness that was left. The truth in Ginny's words verbalized every last fear Hermione herself had suppressed. Was this all her fault? If Ron had not taken that curse _for her_ , perhaps he would still be alive. If _she_ had researched the wandlore further, perhaps Harry would have not been the victim of a curse breaking out of the wand. Regret hung about as a thick fog, and she was suffocated by it. Sitting at the top of the dune, and flopping back against the now cool sand, she prepared herself for the tears. They didn't come though, and she wondered if now she truly was numb.

The sound of laboured breaths reached her ears, and Hermione assumed it was George. As the sand shifted close by, she looked up to see a shadow. The obscured figure stood blocking the moon, but the details she could make out in the dim light revealed none of their features were shared with George except for being tall. The stranger's gait and stance was all wrong, and the arms and shoulders were more muscular and stocky. Scrambling to her feet, she pulled her wand, preparing to hex the intruder. As she did, they reached out their hands in a gesture that obviously meant peace.

"Hermione, it's me," Neville whispered. "I'm so sorry to have startled you. George said you'd be up here. Do you want me to go?"

Letting her heart beat slow, she lowered her wand and sat back down. "No, Neville, you can stay."

He sat down next to her a few feet away and said nothing. She wasn't entirely sure what to make of this situation. She, herself, didn't have anything to say; didn't Neville come up here to talk to her? Her thoughts wandered to the Battle as she was reminded of what Neville had done to help Harry. He had been there for him. He had succeeded in his mission that Harry had given him. Perhaps her anger at the Order elevating him to a position of leadership was misplaced. Neville was a friend and had always been.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Neville's kind voice, "These stars are amazing. You know what it reminds me of?"

She shook her head, but didn't speak.

"Remember the Space Room at the Department of Mysteries?"

Hermione turned her head to look at Neville. Was he serious? Was he really wanting talk about such a horrible night? A night which Ginny broke her ankle and was almost killed. Neville himself had suffered a broken nose. Not to mention, Sirius passing through the veil and breaking Harry's twice orphaned heart.

Oblivious to her reaction, Neville continued, "Of course you don't remember, you were unconscious. Luna saved us from that particular room, did you know? Well, anyways, I never really got to properly thank you for saving my life that night."

"What are you going on about, Neville?" she croaked through sore vocal chords that trembled with the effort of holding back tears.

"When we were in the Time Chamber, and I accidentally disarmed Harry, you were there. You stunned Rabastan, and we were able to get out of there. And that isn't the first time you've saved me. What about when you found Trevor, or helped me into the Common Room when I forgot the password. Oh, and how many times did you help me in Potions? You're always coming to my aid in one way or another."

In utter disbelief, Hermione shook her head to try to clear the thoughts that were now spinning like a top. "Neville, YOU saved my life that night… If you hadn't carried me through, I would have easily been killed... You took care of all of those children at Hogwarts and protected them. You killed that bloody snake!"

She watched as his face split into a large smile, one that truly fit his face even with the scars littering his cheeks and forehead. "That's just it Hermione. It's what we do, us Gryffindors, we protect each other. And we are daring and have nerve! What sets us apart? The bravery of our hearts." She watched as his eyes lit up. His voice was set in a proud and deep tone as he continued firmly, "We can finish this." His voice slowed as if in reverence, "Harry did his part, but he wouldn't want us to stop just because he wasn't here to lead."

Blinking slowly, the words that Neville was speaking slowly formed and began to make sense. "Are you trying to tell me that I need to get over Harry's death and fight the Death Eaters?" Neville's face fell and he shook his head. "Are you really going to sit there and tell me to be brave, like a _fucking_ Gryffindor because that is what he'd want of me?" Neville looked at Hermione with eyes wide, shock covering his features. "Well, let me tell you something _Neville Longbottom_! Harry is dead. He is _dead_ , dammit! And nothing will bring him back. We could go and kill all the Death Eaters tomorrow and that will still mean that Harry is dead! That... Harry… that Ron… are dead."

She began to rock back and forth with her head in her hands as the words she voiced out loud began to vine themselves up her spine to lodge into her heart. They were dead, and nothing could bring them back. There wasn't a reason to go fight now, because there was nothing worth fighting for. She wasn't surprised when she heard George's voice next to her ear, "He's gone now." At his words, the tears finally escaped, and he dove with her back into the depths of their Ocean of Grief once again.

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 **~Thank you so much for your continued reading and reviewing. Those reviews mean so much to us, and really push us to continue this story and make it something wonderful for you guys! We especially want to acknowledge** **BadWolf829** **and** **GrumpierTurtle** **for their always thoughtful and encouraging readers are so amazing, and the support for this story is still blowing our minds!~**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** This chapter is dedicated to  LavonnaLlama who writes a wonderful pureblood!hermione/forced-marriage Sevmione (Severus/Hermione) called The Heir. Please go over to her page and check her stories out! They are fantastic!

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 **CHAPTER SIX**

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"Do you guys think you could keep it down? Fuck!" Theo yelled up the ladder to the loft where Blaise and Pansy were. The boards of the floor above creaked while the springs of the couch kept time with the heavy breathing coming from the pair.

Draco smirked at Theo and then asked, "Feeling restless?"

"No, Draco. I just enjoy sitting here listening to two people SHAG ON MY COUCH!" The last part was directed loudly up to the wooden beams above, his voice filled with facetious tones. Giggles from Pansy floated down at the accusation before she returned to moaning and panting.

Draco did have to admit, the couple in question were becoming increasingly annoying to be around. While he was happy for both of his friends that they were able to have the distraction, he really didn't find it necessary for them to be so obvious. Draco got up and began to pace the worn path in the dirt floor from the back of the barn to the huge front door. He took to doing this daily, not out of nerves, but because it helped his brain to think when his body was moving. He pivoted and spun, heading back towards the oversized double-doors. If he stood just right, he could peek out one of the cracks separating the planks.

The barn stood in the middle of an overgrown field a few miles from the Nott Estate. Its magnificent Scandinavian redwood lumber was imported from Russia, and the knots that sprinkled the planks gave the walls a sense of the life that they had lived before; trees battling the elements of nature. Where sheep and cows once grazed, only little purple and blue flowers took residence, bending against the breeze. The long grasses, bright green and sprinkled with fresh rainfall, danced with the wind. The rolling hills of the expansive fields were littered with chestnut and cherry trees beginning to burst into full bloom. The grey stone wall, which had previously been used as a fence to keep the animals safe, was beginning to crumble in places, leaving a sadness in the break of simple perfection that made up the rest of the landscape.

The whole scene was oddly reminiscent of the light-hearted moments of his and Theo's childhood, chasing crickets and racing through the field on broomsticks as sheep bleated in protest at the intrusion. The carefree memories that came up with the vision before him were a stark contrast to their current circumstances leaving Draco with a pang of longing in his heart. Even though their families' values were not ideal, and their parents were absent at best, abusive and neglectful at worst, the memories of this barn and surrounding field harkened back to simpler times for Draco.

It had been a full fortnight since the Final Battle, and they had stayed hiding out in the barn since they had arrived. Theo had wandered down to the house the first few days for food, but when Pansy became irritating with the persistent nagging about how dangerous it was, he had taken to just summoning his house-elf, Keeley, instead.

"Keeley," Theo bellowed, bringing Draco's head back around in time to see the house-elf appear.

Keeley was an old house-elf given to Theo to look after him shortly after his mother died. Draco remembered the day that he found Theo, only seven years old, in his wardrobe, holding tight to the elf as he cried into its already dirt covered dress. He had shut the door, and had never mentioned the event to Theo, but Draco knew that this elf was very important to him - more than just a servant. Keeley had probably been the only one to care for the scared and lonely boy at the time. Surely, that had not been the first time Theo found comfort in the arms of the elf who raised him nor would it have been the last. They had a special bond which was made evident in Theo's demeanor with the creature.

"Young Master Teddy calls, sir?"

"Yes, Keeley, we are all quite hungry. Would you, please, go down to the house and fetch me whatever we have left in the kitchens? I'm sure it is scarce now without Father there to order you to get more, but just bring whatever you can find." He smiled cunningly before adding, "Including the liquor."

"Yes, Master Teddy, sir," Keeley said as she bowed low.

Before the elf could Disapparate, Draco interrupted, "Keeley, could I request you to bring something to me?"

Keeley looked at Theo for assurance, before nodding. "Yes, Young Mister Malfoy, sir. You have been a loyal friend to Master Teddy. Keeley will be delighted to serve Young Mister Malfoy, as he requests, sir."

"Excellent. I need you to bring me all of the potions ingredients in the house, as well. I know it will be quite a haul, so you can use my knapsack. It has both Weightless and Expandable Charms on it."

The elf's eyes grew wide. "Young Mister Malfoy, sir, would like Keeley to hold his bag... to use?" Her eyes began to fill with tears as she shrieked the rest of her response through sobs. "Keeley has _never_ been given a magical item to _use_. Yes, to clean or put away, even mend, but _never to use_. Thank you, Young Mister Malfoy, sir."

Draco watched uneasily as the the elderly elf gulped and grabbed the satchel tentatively. Unsure of what to do with _anyone_ who was crying, let alone a house-elf, he patted the elf gently as she put the bag over her shoulder and Disapparated with a _CRACK!_

He knew Theo was staring at him with curiosity bubbling in his brain. Draco could feel his friend's eyes boring into him, willing him to answer the question that Theo would not ask. It was, however, a different voice that asked the question to which he already had an answer prepared. The soft feminine voice came from the shadows of the back of the barn. He was beginning to grow accustomed to hearing her honeyed tones which grated his nerves as much as comforted them. "What are you up to, Draco? Why do you need all the potion ingredients from the house?" Astoria asked.

He turned towards the sound and watched as she stumbled around a post, clinging to it to catch her breath. The young woman holding herself on the wooden post held her injured leg carefully to keep the pressure off. The once brilliant blue and purple bruise had lightened into green and yellow and painted the whole side of her foot up to her calf.

"Merlin, woman. I told you to stay put. Do you ever listen to anything? And it should be quite obvious as to why I have asked for more potions ingredients." Draco looked at Astoria and then turned to Theo. Both faces peered back him with no sign of understanding, whether they actually did or not, they weren't letting on. "Well," Draco explained, "for starters, someone could fall sick. We need to be proactive. There are numerous reasons why having many supplies ready for us is incredibly important."

At that moment, Pansy and Blaise descended the ladder. "I think it is very _dedicated_ of you, Draco," Pansy sneered as she batted her eyelashes at him in sarcasm. Blaise pinched her arse on the way down the ladder, and she let out an involuntary squeak before tossing him a warning glance.

Draco turned on his heel, and headed back to the barn door, muttering under his breath, "Fucking cunt." He was not upset, per se, about her and Blaise together. He had no desire to bed Pansy for himself any more, and even though their continuous display was becoming exasperating, their relationship was not the crux of his annoyance with her. No, it was when she spoke in his direction with the idle threat in her voice that grated on him. The girl was really far too observant for her own good, and Draco did not fancy being on the receiving end of whatever Pansy was planning for the secrets she had collected about him. Plus, she was just fucking bothersome.

He let the voices behind him drown out as he focused on peering through the crevice in the barn doors. He had never been fond of being closed up, and it was giving him a very anxious feeling to be trapped in this barn, especially with _them_. He had tried numerous times to go flying under the guise of seeing what was happening, but the majority vote always kept his feet firmly on the ground. The fact that they had no news from the outside world was becoming increasingly disturbing to him. His skin crawled like something bad was coming towards him, but he couldn't put his finger on it, and it just made the feelings of being caged all the more suffocating. They couldn't really leave here safely, though, and he understood that, much to his dismay. With Death Eaters likely having taken over the Ministry and running loose without Voldemort to tamper them, Draco was too vulnerable. Someone will have noticed he hadn't fought during the Battle but ran instead. He would be considered as a traitor in their midst, and the fate that awaits someone with that brand was not something he wanted to explore. As for the rest of the group, their only immediate danger was associating with him. If he hadn't brought them along this wouldn't even be an issue, but as it stood, they were here with him, and he had to now make accommodations for them with minimal risk, if possible.

Draco could feel the air shift around him and heard the scrapes of uneven footfall draw towards him. "What the hell do you want, Astoria?" he hissed without looking at her.

"How did you know it was me?" she balked.

"I was a bloody spy for the Dark Lord in that pointless castle they pass off for a school. I think I know when someone is standing right behind me. Plus, you sound like a wounded hippogriff walking around." He could practically hear the eyeroll that coupled the dramatic huff from the pretty blonde.

"You know what? Fuck off. I don't know why you're such an arse to me. I am just trying to figure out if you're okay," her words stamped out indignantly.

Turning on his heels, Draco sneered in her direction. "Astoria, stop being such a fucking interfering bitch. I am so sick of you coddling me. You have no idea what's going on with -"

The sting across his face shocked the words back down, and he lifted his fingers to press on his jutting cheekbone. His jaw dropped with the blow. _Did she just fucking slap me?!_

"Don't you fucking dare, Draco. I just lost my bloody sister, and I had the decency to be concerned about _you_. You have _no right_."

The look in Astoria's eyes at moment her open palm struck his cheek was pure hatred, and he could not stop the raging hardness that suddenly strained itself against the seam of his trousers. Draco grabbed her face with both hands and pulled her aggressively to crush his lips against hers. His tongue forced itself through her lips with her gasp of shock, and her teeth scraped against his as she tried to pull away.

"Malfoy. The fuck?!" she spat out, touching her fingertips to her lips. "Why... did you…. Why did you do that?!"

"Oh, come off it, _love_ ," he sneered in disgust at the pet name. "You just hit me, so I kissed you. You can't tell me you were just goading me to tell me off."

"Draco Lucius Malfoy, you are a complete fucking arsehole," she declared with disdain as she turned to stomp away from him, her bad ankle preventing the dramatic exit and causing her to look more like a child tripping on uneven cobblestones.

"Tisk tisk," he said with a click of his tongue. "Such a mouth on you. Is all of that time with me really influencing you so poorly?" he mocked. Astoria did not afford him a glance, and instead threw up a middle finger behind her back to emphasise her earlier remark. Her injured right ankle buckled a bit, and she nearly lost her balance, catching herself on a nearby beam.

Draco sighed loudly and rolled his eyes in defeat, following after her. "C'mon Greengrass, let me help you back to bed at least." Catching up with her, he held out his arm for leverage, and she threw him a nasty glare as she begrudgingly took it. He guided her slowly to the makeshift bed, and she braced her weight against his forearms as she lowered herself down into it, propping her bad ankle on the coat at the foot of the bed. Draco handed her one of the books that he brought from his bedroom, an adventure novel that depicted the journey of several hobbits and warlocks. She gave him a timid smile in thanks, but the fire behind her eyes showed her true feelings for him: abhorrence. Draco was fine with her hating him; he didn't need to like her to fuck her, and his arousal made itself well known every time she flashed him that scornful look. He wasn't making any specific plans to sleep with her, but if they continued to be stuck in this barn Theo and Blaise were _definitely not_ options.

Astoria studied the spine of the book he had passed to her from his bag. "J.R.R. Tolkien? Sounds like a Muggle wanker." Her face was skeptical, and her lips were drawn tight in a grimace.

"Actually," Draco cleared his throat and raised his chin in challenge, "he was a wizard."

She gave him another silent eyeroll - possibly the sixth that day - but still opened the book to the first page and settled in to read.

"Now, be a good girl and stay," he warned her, no doubt eliciting another set of eyerolls. He turned around before giving her a chance to respond and glided away to peer through the barn doors once more.

Draco noticed it had been awhile since Keeley had returned. She didn't normally take this long to come back from her errands. He turned to Theo, who sat on the floor with his back leaned against what was once used as a feeding trough while he used his wand to fold the parchment in front of him into odd shapes.

"Theo, how long has it been since Keeley left?"

Not looking up, Theo shrugged his shoulders before answering, "I don't know, maybe twenty minutes… Why?"

Draco couldn't describe the feeling that had suddenly shivered over his skin leaving the hairs standing, but he knew something was off. He shook his head and arms, ridding the tingling sensation. "No reason. I just assumed she'd be back by now. That's all."

"Well, maybe if you hadn't sent her on a potions run as well, she would have been back by now." Pansy interjected the conversation with a particularly annoyed look in Draco's direction. It was one she often reserved just for him, and he took every opportunity to rouse it out of her. "Speaking of, Theo will you ask her to bring us some more soap? We're almost out, and I would love a bath tonight."

Thanks to the soap Draco had brought from the Manor, everyone had recently been freshly cleaned. Upon Pansy's request, they had been able to create a makeshift tub, and not only did they have a chance to bathe, they had also been able to properly clean their robes.

Keeley's loud crack of Apparition, which sounded in the loft, halted the talk of Pansy's bath time. Draco, Theo, Blaise, and Pansy shared a quick look of confusion before Draco and Theo bounded up the ladder to see the house-elf quaking on the dark indigo rug that separated the couch from the oversized chair. Her eyes were round as saucers, and she kept twitching her ears as though she were listening intently for something.

"Keeley, what's going on? Why did you Apparate up here?" Theo asked, kneeling down to look her in the face.

Draco noticed his knapsack over her shoulder and took it from her gently. Upon opening it, he saw some food and liquor as Theo had requested. A few loaves of bread and a bag of apples were accompanied by a dozen bottles of what looked to be an assortment of brandy, firewhisky, and wine. There was also a separate bag that he assumed held the potions ingredients he had asked for. He reached for the black leather pouch and untwisted the top to peak in, immediately recognizing the smell of herbs. The strong scent, reminiscent of the Hogwarts dungeons, was accompanied by the clinking of phials as they shifted against each other.

Closing the potions bag, he noticed some random poles sticking out at odd angles and the smell of plastic. "Keeley, what is this in here? Is this a tent?"

The little elf had still not answered Theo's questions, but continued to stare at him, eyes glazed over. At Draco's query, her senses seemed to return, and she grabbed Theo's cheeks in her long, bony fingers, turning his face to hers, demanding his attention. "Listen to me, Master Theodore, sir. Your father knows Teddy is here. He is coming, sir. Keeley is sorry she had to tell him you were here, sir. Master ordered Keeley to tell him, sir."

Theo's eyes widened, and he looked at Draco, a degree of fear lingering behind the anger that flamed in his eyes. Draco noted Theo's rigid stance and kneeled down next to him while looking at Keeley who still had her palms on Theo's face.

"Keeley, is Theo's father angry?" he asked.

Reaching up, Theo removed Keeley's hands from his face but continued to held them in his hands.

She looked from Draco to Theo, and back before answering, "No, not right now, Young Mister Malfoy, sir. Master has come to fetch Young Master Teddy and his friends. Master seemed… excited, sir."

Still curious as to why she packed them a tent of all things, Draco asked again, "Why is there a tent in this bag?"

Keeley began to cry, large droplets splashing down her cheeks which fell on the floor. "Keeley, I order you tell me everything," Theo interrupted somewhat firmly. Despite his insistent tone, he made a point to grip her hands in the same moment to prevent her hurting herself.

"Master Teddy must leave, sir. Please, leave before Master does the same to you that he did to Master Teddy's loving mother and Keeley's good Mistress. Just leave, sir. Go."

Draco was more than surprised at the elf's confession. He was not expecting it, and it took him quite off guard. If he was surprised, he could not imagine what Theo was feeling in that instant. Draco noticed Theo's face fall and turn an unhealthy shade of grey, and his eyes glassed over as though he wasn't even seeing the elf in front of him.

Taking initiative, Draco stood and headed to the edge of the loft and leaned over the railing. Looking down, he called out to the others, "Blaise, we have to move, _now_. Theo's father is on his way here. Get Astoria. Gather everything we have down there and anything else that may be of use. We will head to Mortimer Forest liked we talked about."

He turned around and took in his surroundings of what would be beneficial on the run. Noting the couch and oversized chair, he quickly shrunk them and stuffed them inside his now very full satchel. He did a quick spell to gather the littered remnants of their stay - cloaks, quills and parchment, and all of the miscellaneous potion's phials - and dumped those unceremoniously into his bag, too.

"Theo, let's go," Draco said urgently, placing a hand on his long time friend's shoulder. Theo still had not moved, and Keeley was whispering something to him, eyes locked on her master's.

"Theo, we need -"

"Draco, he's here. What do we do?" Pansy asked in a whispered shout from the bottom of the ladder.

Before Draco could answer, Theo responded in a firm and resolute tone, "Let him in."

Theo descended the ladder and lowered the few wards they had put up around the barn. Draco stood next to Theo in the center of the barn as the others gathered close behind them. Only the elf stayed behind, presumably hiding in the loft. The door opened slowly, and the elder Nott entered; his tall and lean frame lurked in the doorway. With the sun behind his back, it was hard to read his expression. Thoros took a few steps into the barn. The man stood tall and proud, and as his face became visible they could see his chin ghosted with the same colour shadow as his hair, dark with sprinkles of white peppered in.

Nose upturned and his brows wrinkled in disgust, he spoke, "Ah, Theodore, I had hoped your elf was right in telling me of your whereabouts, but why in the Dark Lord's name are you living here?" He gestured around the barn adding, "This place is as disgusting as the Muggles I would like to keep in here." Turning to head back out the door, he ordered, "Now, come, let's go. We have business to take care of, and you and your friends will be a valuable asset."

"We're not going anywhere, _Father_ ," Theo spat back, his voice venomous, body trembling with emotion. Draco had never heard Theo argue with his father; he had witnessed the elder man abuse his friend plenty of times though, physically and emotionally, and more often than not without any provocation at all. The man was a wicked one who could easily have rivaled his Aunt Bellatrix in the joy she found in torturing others. Thoros was one of the first and most eager to raise a hand to volunteer in 'teaching lessons' to Muggles during the Dark Lord's meetings. He resembled Granger in that way; though she was ambitious with her studies, and Thoros Nott was voracious with his use of Unforgivables.

Theo's father stopped, back stiff as he faced away from the group of teenagers, and his hand raised to grab the door. Theo kept on, voice heated. "I wouldn't go anywhere with you. You are a rapist and a murderer. You killed your own wife!" Theo spat out in rage. His voice dropped an octave as he added slowly, "Keeley told me everything." At this point, Theo's voice was shaking, and the tears, whether of sadness or anger, were threatening to overtake their resting place. Draco noticed Thoros slip his wand from his sleeve. "I can't believe you killed my mother," the younger Nott accused, practically shouting, as spit flew from his mouth with his words.

Slowly, Thoros turned around with his brows knitted together, and his eyes narrowed as he lifted his chin in the air. His dark blue eyes, cold with fury, bore deep into his son's as his voice sharply but quietly filled the expanse of the barn. "You know nothing, boy. You know nothing of what is going on right now, or why you must choose the right side. We are going to reign over all Magical society. Those who defy the new regime will be dead. This is not a game, Theodore, and you will come now."

He then turned to Draco. "Draco, your father and mother are waiting for you. Talk some sense into this boy, and let us get out of this dump."

Draco stiffened as Thoros addressed him, and he unconsciously started sliding his wand down his shirt sleeve to be ready to put it in hand.

At the mention of his parents, he remembered what his mother told him, " _I cannot emphasise it any clearer. I, more than anyone else, understand what risk there is with the Dark Lord dead. You are in grave danger, and you need to hide."_ Her desperate eyes filled his thoughts at the memory of her pleas to him, and an ache of longing spread over him. He still wondered every day how his father would protect her, and regret pooled in his gut that he did not do more to save her from them and bring her with him.

Draco replied in a tone much more confident than he felt as his wand slid over his wrist, steeling his nerves. "Theo explained to you that we are not going anywhere with you. We will no longer fight for your side, and you will no longer have control over him."

"Suit yourselves," Thoros Nott drawled as if bored with the exchange. He raised his wand towards the group. "I guess I will just have to give you all a bit of _encouragement._ "

Draco's wand slipped the rest of the way into his palm, and he raised his arm to get a Protection Shield around them. He was not prepared for the non-verbal spell Thoros cast at the group, and Draco's shield did not raise in time. They were bound by some kind of Body-Bind Curse that left them unable to move, although, they could still speak.

Quickly after being frozen, another curse was cast in their direction as a red light shot through the small space between Draco and Theo, hitting what sounded like Blaise as he grunted forcefully with the blow. Pansy's shriek floated up to the rafters of the barn as Blaise's body thumped to the ground. The sound of Blaise's convulsions and writhing were deafening as he struggled against the Torture Curse. Even without being able to look behind him, Draco knew his friend was suffering from the _Cruciatus_. The sounds, which haunted his dreams every night, were unmistakable.

One by one, the Body-Bind Curse was removed as Thoros threw various curses in each of their directions. Draco, still immobilized, watched from the corner of his eye as Theo was disarmed by his father and fell victim to the older man as he cast his second Unforgivable Curse of the day, this one on his own son.

" _Imperio_ ," Thorors said with an eerily calm voice. It was as if he were ordering dinner from a menu and not a curse from his wand. Theo's eyes glazed over, and a very content look crossed his features.

"So, Draco," the man addressed him with a sneer. "Do you and your lot want to come by choice or by the suggestion of my wand like my dear boy here? Either way, you all will be coming. I even have a _special_ place in the ranks for these _lovely ladies_." He tossed a lascivious glance in the girls' direction which caused Draco to recoil internally in disgust.

Draco felt a cold shiver run through his spine as the Body-Bind Spell finally melted from around him. He trained his wand at Thoros' heart and glanced quickly behind him to look at Blaise. His eyes were black as coal and unreadable, and he remained in a heap on the floor, the aftershocks of the curse still coursing through his body. Pansy was shaking visibly, but refused to meet Draco's eyes. He could feel the fear coming from directly behind him where Astoria stood tremoring with her hand fisting the back of his shirt. He looked over at Theo and saw that his eyes were actually staring up towards the loft, the vacant expression gone. Theo had thrown off the Imperius, something they all had learned to do with the Carrow's teachings. He knew, then, what they had to do.

Draco began, "Mr. Nott, sir, I really think it would be best -"

 _CRACK!_

Keeley Apparated right next to Theo before Draco could finish his sentence. She grabbed Theo's hand and looked to her elder Master. "You will not be taking Young Master Teddy with you, sir. Keeley will take him some place far away from Master. He is a good man, not like you, sir." The small, old elf lowered her gaze in disgrace at her insubordination to her master.

At these words, he felt the three friends behind him band together. The hand that held a death grip to the back of his shirt let go, and the sound reverberated against his eardrums as the trio Disapparated without him. Their action caught everyone by surprise, and Draco stood in place as he watched the senior Nott narrow his eyes and turn his glare at his son and elf, lip curling.

Thoros took a step forward, towards them, and his wand hand twitched as the spell fell from his lips easily, " _Incarcerous_." Thin cords shot from the end of his wand, directly at Theo, binding him from head to toe and leaving him to struggle on the dirt floor, gagged but still able to see. "Keep your eyes open, boy. I want you to watch what happens when someone, or _something,_ defies me. Keeley," he demanded, "I order you to take this knife."

Nott handed the shaking elf a short blunt knife, pressing the black hilt into her palm. Theo was struggling on the floor, using every effort to break the ropes that now dug into his exposed skin, making angry red welts against his flesh. Draco wasn't sure what Theo's father had planned so he stood still, wand hand held down by his leg and waiting for the opportunity to grab Theo and Disapparate them away.

He watched as a villainous expression crossed the old man's face, and his tongue licked his bottom lip disturbingly. "Keeley, I order you to kill yourself."

The elf hesitated and looked up with eyes wide at the man. "Master, sir?" she spoke with a question on her dry, chapped lips.

Theo was thrashing now on the floor, racking sobs coming from his gagged mouth. Draco felt the fear trickle up his spine at the Dark Magic filling the room. It was suffocating, and he felt as though he were drowning in the absolute disgust of the man standing feet away from him.

"No, Keeley, you don't have to follow this order," Draco spoke the words, unintentionally, out loud.

"Oh, Draco. You know she does," the man taunted back. "Keeley, NOW," he bellowed.

Before he gathered the courage to stop it, Keeley lay next to Theo, blood spurting from an open gash on her long, pale neck. Her round, black eyes were boring straight into Theo's as her lips formed the word ' _Sorry'_. Theo struggled against his binds, eyes raging even as tears leaked from the corners.

The old man stared at his son with a look of amusement on his face. Draco knew that look all too well, and it brought back the haunting memories of watching Voldemort as he tortured his followers. This man was enjoying not just the fact that he had spilled the blood of a magical creature, but he had giddy delight in killing one that his son cared so deeply for. Thoros knew his son was hurting, physically and emotionally, and yet, he was relishing in that pain, even taunting him.

"Oh, poor Theodore, is your precious elf dead? That's what it gets. Just the same as your dearest mother. She tried to _fix_ me and _protect_ you, same as the insipid elf, but they were both weak in the end."

Something snapped in Draco as he watched Thoros mock his son, bringing him back from memories of the Dark Lord to the present. His heartbeat thudded rapidly and loudly in his ears as he let the power of anger guide his magic through his wand. He raised his wand hand without hesitation, and before the elder Nott could so much as flick his own, he cried, " _Crucio_."

Nott went rigid. His eyes shut and jaw clenched tightly as he stood in place against the curse. Draco only hoped he would crack his teeth with the force of resisting the tremors. Draco twisted his wrist and squeezed the wand tighter in his hand as he strengthened the power of the curse. The _Cruciatus_ was magically draining for the caster anytime it was performed, but over the last two years, Draco had grown accustomed to the dizzying sensations that accompanied it. He used his natural gift of Occlumency to block away his emotions and separate the deplorable act from the disgust that made him retch. Occluding left him hollow, and, at this point, the practiced detachment was necessary and automatic anytime he had to torture anyone.

Thoros fell back to the ground with the second wave of force Draco sent his way. The scream he resisted broke through his lips as the curse raged through his body, its effects certainly setting each muscle aflame. Anyone who took the Dark Lord's Mark was trained from the beginning to take the curse standing, and it was a sign of weakness to fall down. Draco's aim with the Thoros Nott was as much harm as it was humiliation, and the strength of his fury directed into the curse towards the man was unmistakable in reflecting that.

After an unknown amount of time, Draco pulled his wand up, breaking the curse. He cast a quick _Diffindo,_ severing Theo's ropes. The old man rolled to his front and raised himself on his knees as he spat blood from his mouth. "You will pay for that, Draco Malfoy." His breathing was labored, but he continued as if unaffected. "Mark my words, boy. I will have your head and serve it to your mummy dearest on her own silver platter."

Before Draco could answer, Theo swung his leg forward, connecting his boot with his father's face - resulting in a sickening crunch as his nose broke. Theo pulled back, ready to throw himself at his father, wand completely forgotten, but Draco wrapped his arms around Theo's waist, pulling him back. Theo struggled against the hold, but Draco held tighter, shouting, "No, Theo! We have to get out of here. This waste of space is not worth it."

His friend stilled his struggle and grabbed the satchel they had nearly forgotten, swinging it up over his shoulder. Then the man, whose eyes looked much like a sad boy's, reached out to scoop the dead house-elf in his arms. Draco noticed Thoros lift his head, blood pouring from both nose and mouth. His dark blue eyes were almost black with the the rage that shook his body.

Thoros raised his arm and pointed his wand at them. Draco Disapparated away as a jet of green light came soaring towards them.

* * *

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	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

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Three weeks had passed since the Order had arrived. Hermione found herself next to George at the elongated kitchen table that now took residence in the sitting room while Order meetings were held. Kingsley sat at the head of the table chatting quietly with Neville who sat on his right. An open seat was held on his left for Bill Weasley, but he was talking to his brother Percy a few chairs down. There was general chit-chat around the table, and Hermione found no desire to join any of the conversation. She listened as Katie told George of Dean's absence.

"It seems as though Dean got a Patronus from Professor McGonagall yesterday evening," Katie whispered hurriedly. "Seamus woke in the night, and apparently he has improved dramatically. He left without saying anything to anyone. He didn't even tell Luna, but you know her, she _knew_ what happened and left this morning."

Hermione didn't know quite what to feel at that moment. Her body and soul too numb, she just bowed her head and looked at her hands as they wore holes in the cuffs of her shirt. Her right leg bounced up and down in nervous anticipation, and as she stopped shaking the right, the left started up, making her whole chair rattle with its reverberating creak. George reached over and put his hand on her knee, stilling it. She looked up to meet his eyes and felt a moment of peace. He smiled at her now—a real smile—the kind that made her, for a fraction of an instant, not feel uncomfortable or numb. His smile always did that to her; it made her feel alive, and she wanted to touch him and hear his heartbeat under her ear. His grin widened, and he moved his hand up her naked thigh, reaching his fingers out a bit farther towards the inner seam of her shorts. She rolled her eyes, hiding her smirk, knowing he was trying to get her to smile, and grabbed his hand in her own, intertwining her fingers in his. He leaned into her ear and whispered, "You're no fun."

Kingsley cleared his throat and stood from his seat. "We will go ahead and begin this meeting. I'm certain Minerva will be along shortly."

This meeting was to finalize what they had been discussing for weeks. Of course, Hermione didn't partake in much of the planning, but she had listened from the passersby coming and going when sitting outside on the dunes, and she knew enough before going into this meeting of what was going on.

Currently, the Ministry of Magic was being held captive by the Death Eaters. Kingsley's informants were able to let the Order know that no one could get into the Ministry, and they were not letting anyone out. It seemed as though the Death Eaters infiltrated the Ministry after the Final Battle at Hogwarts and waited until Monday morning when all the staff arrived to reveal themselves. Due to the already Death Eater governed Ministry, it was fairly easy to take over completely, even though Voldemort was no longer alive to hold the reigns. The Imperiused Pius Thicknesse still sat as Minister of Magic, and it was probable that each of the department heads and board members were prominent Death Eaters now as well. There had been a few Ministry workers to break out of the locked-down building, only to be hunted down and dragged back, or killed. Kingsley was not certain of their motivations for holding the Ministry workers against their will, but guesses floated around the table that perhaps they were attempting to prevent a potential rebellion if all of the workers remained inside under their control. Hermione had assumed that there would have been a collective chaos post-Battle, and the surprise that carried across the faces of the others at the table made it apparent she was not alone in these assumptions. It seemed as though the Death Eaters, despite their manic leader being killed, were more organized than anticipated. The Order was still unsure of who was now in charge of the Death Eaters, but whoever was running the show was smart and calculated and must know their way around the political waters. However, that was the extent of the 'inside' information they could get.

Spreading out the wide parchment on the table that consisted of the plans and layout of the Ministry, Kingsley waved his wand, muttering, " _Uti Rarus Exempli_." Dozens of smaller pieces of parchment emitted from his wand, each an exact replica of the larger model, and they collected in a neat pile beside the original.

Neville grabbed the stack and took one before passing it to his right. As Hermione stared down at her copy, she unintentionally squeezed George's hand. He looked over to her and leaned in close to her ear. His breath tickled as stray hairs danced around her cheek. "We don't have to go if you don't want to."

He soothed her unspoken fears as if he knew exactly what she were thinking before she did.

On instinct, she leaned into his voice, and he, in turn, placed a kiss on her temple. She closed her eyes and forgot for a moment that they were in a room full of people. She breathed in the comforting spice of his scent as a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She was pulled from her reverie with an abrupt clearing of someone's throat. Her comfort level with George was probably noticeable to most observers, but they had not yet made any overt declarations of their change in relationship, and certainly not publicly.

Hermione lowered her head in embarrassment and shifted back from the smiling girl who dissolved under George's affections, to the skittish and unpredictable war veteran. She was emotional, unsteady, and continued to waffle between numb and explosive. For the duration of the meeting, she sat quietly in her chair, the only noise from her being the creak of the wooden chair legs with each bounce of her nervous heel.

"As you all know, we will be on Whitehall, and we will need to keep disguised as we approach the workers entrance." Kingsley spoke with a masterful authority, demanding the captivated audience of everyone in the room. He continued, "We don't want to gain unwanted attention before we even get to the toilets. I would like a party of two to go to the visitor's entrance so that we can monitor who is coming and going. Remember, for now, we are just there to keep watch and for reconnaissance. _Do not get caught._ Charlie has already let me know that you can not get in by Apparition, and the Floo Network has been blocked to anyone that does not have the Dark Mark. Once we learn of the possibilities of getting in, we will move forward to the next phase of the plan."

Kingsley droned on, and on about particulars on how they could potentially gain access, and what they would do once they entered the Ministry. Hermione only paid him half a mind, knowing from experience of the many, many excursions with Harry and Ron that nearly all of her planning would go to shit, and they would have to abandon her carefully crafted contrivance and act on instinct anyways.

She, still, was not sure if she wanted to be involved in the Ministry raid and was grateful for George's assurance that they didn't have to go. However, this left the decision in her hands, and in some ways, she just wanted George to tell her what to do. She was perfectly content to lose herself in him during their dark nights shared together, and happily acquiesced to be guided by and cared for by him during the day. He had a way of knowing what she needed and showed an ability of being able to change based on his awareness of her.

It was in the little things, like how he would often fix her plain tea and toast when she had had a particularly rough night sleeping, knowing her stomach would be in shreds and unable to accept much more. George looked after her, and Hermione found the change refreshingly easy to navigate.

For the first time in her life, Hermione was not the one at the helm. She no longer had people to fuss over with Harry and Ron gone, and while that was a painful reality to accept, it was one that gave her the freedom to just _be_. Long gone were the days of being responsible to act as a buffer between two impetuous boys and the danger they ran fearlessly towards. It wasn't necessary to be constantly aware of their wants and needs anymore. Consequently, there was also no longer an urge to concern herself with obsessive research and making sure to have all of the answers prepared. With George, things were simple. _He_ was the one on guard of _her_ wants and needs, and he routinely planned exit strategies when emotions ran too high inside the house. He checked in on her frequently, tending to her feelings and desires with ease. Hermione found herself soothed by his efforts and attentions; no longer forced to run herself ragged from worry, because she knew George would take care of it.

He protected her, and so she submitted to just being steered this way and that by the man she trusted above anyone. He guided her through her Ocean, through her pain. And he guided her to the sunshine and laughter and _life_ that would otherwise be despair and darkness without him. George was her light in a sea of inky blackness, and she surrendered herself to him.

The shuffling of chairs and parchment could be heard over her drifting thoughts, and Hermione caught George's eyes as he stood to leave the table. She pushed her chair back, observing Neville as he poured over the plans with Bill and Kingsley. She wondered if the older men truly felt this strategy was going to produce a positive outcome with Neville leading the way. In his rush to get to the head of the table, Percy passed by and knocked George into her. She was pushed forward, hissing out in pain as her hip collided against the edge of the table.

"Sorry, love," George soothed as he righted himself and offered a hand, pulling her straight. She massaged the bone that now throbbed with discomfort. George noticed, and put his hand over hers. "Come, I'll take a look."

She rolled her eyes as he winked back at her, and they made their way past the head of the table towards the kitchen.

"So, now that Ron is out of the way, you're just going to start shagging everyone in my family?"

Hermione turned on the spot to face Ginny Weasley who was partially hidden by the wall that ran down the hall. She had not seen the girl since the night she was held at wand point, and Hermione's stomach lurched with unease at the tenuous footing she continued to find herself on with her. Her conflicted heart beat with a twinge of relief at the sight of her friend looking quite well. The family kept Ginny discretely sequestered and flying high as a hippogriff on potions as she was inclined to fits that ranged from childish temper tantrums to storms of rage. Where Hermione cried frequently in her grief, it seemed Ginny was dealing—or _not_ dealing, as the case may be—with her feelings through anger. She no longer looked physically ill; her skin was less sallow and sunken, eyes bright and burning with fire. The fire behind them, though, was clearly still fueled by her fury. It was a strange comfort to know, at least, that she continued to have the same Ginerva Weasley spirit, even if the fire was directed towards her.

"Ginny!" George barked out the reprimand. "What are you doing? Don't talk to her that way!"

He gently pushed Hermione towards the kitchen door, away from the scene Ginny was causing.

Ginny rounded on her brother as she threw her hair over her shoulder in a fury. "Oh, don't act like you care, George." Her voice lowered to a near whisper as she hissed, "We all know. We all see what you two are doing. It's repulsive, using each other that way." The last words flew out in disgust as her nose wrinkled.

"You don't know anything, Ginny," George replied hastily as he forced Hermione through the door and into the kitchen, leaving behind the openly gawking stares of everyone in the living room.

Hermione stomped her way outside toward the tents Kingsley had brought when he had first arrived. She had moved from one of the guest bedrooms she had been sleeping in, favouring the cool sea air and the sounds of waves over the din of the house that seemed to bustle with activity at all hours.

Obscured from the cottage by the large dunes surrounding it, George caught her around her hips, and she squealed in surprise. He pulled her back close to him, wrapping an arm around her waist and one around her stomach, and planted kisses along her neck.

Pulling herself from his hold, she spun to face him, anger still bubbling under the surface.

"George, not now! You heard Ginny, everyone knows . . . I'm so embarrassed."

She hung her head, eyes closed as she pulled her lower lip through her teeth willing herself not to cry.

"Oh, ignore Ginny," he countered, rubbing her arms with both hands. "Hermione, look at me."

When she refused, he placed his thumb on her lip and pulled it from her teeth while lifting her face with his palm. She met his eyes then, but didn't relax. Sighing, he lowered his head and began peppering small kisses along her neck and collarbone as he spoke. "She—" _kiss_ "—rants and raves—" _suckle "—_ all the time," _nibble_ "and no one—" _kiss kiss_ "—pays her any mind."

The last swirl of his tongue landed on the pulse point of her neck, and he lingered, sucking at the sensitive skin, eliciting a soft moan as her shoulders relaxed and she tilted her neck up for him to have better access.

Each time his tongue met her skin, a shiver pulsed through her, breaking down her resolve, and it was all too easy to brace herself against the hard, lithe lines of George's body.

Through shallow breaths she responded, "Well, we should be on our best behavior. I don't want everyone agreeing with Ginny. Just a matter of time until—"

He interrupted her with an insistent kiss on her lips, and she moaned as he lifted his pelvis to brush against hers, the evidence of his intentions made perfectly clear by the hardness pressing against her stomach.

She reluctantly broke away and reprimanded teasingly, "Don't start something you aren't willing to finish, George Weasley."

With a light smack on her arse, he grabbed her by the hand and dragged her the remaining feet to their—well, technically, Hermione's—tent.

Hermione's mind was a swirl of conflicting emotions and thoughts as she grappled with the attempt to set aside thoughts of Ministry raids, the potential disaster that awaited them, and how to fix what was broken with her and Ginny. She was distantly aware of the soft mattress of her bed hitting the back of her knees as she was pushed backwards into its downy expanse. Her mind continued to race through the possibilities, flashing a mixture of memories and nightmares of things that had already gone wrong and scenarios that could be.

George crawled onto the bed beside her and moved to meet her lips with his own. She lost herself in the warmth of his mouth. He tasted like the chocolate gateau they had enjoyed for tea, and her tongue reached out farther to take in more of the sweetness. He lifted himself to settle between her legs which parted for him automatically, their lips never breaking contact, and the weight of his body on hers briefly banishing the tormenting images.

The delicate hands lifting her blouse over her chest exposed her ribs to the unseasonably brisk sea air, and it was enough to drive any remaining concerns or fears away.

Her only thoughts, now, were with the lips that were dragging across the thin fabric of her bra and nipping at the stiffening buds underneath it. A shiver settled over her, pebbling her in tiny goosebumps in the wake of his fingers moving over her midriff. He teased the skin at the top of her shorts, slipping a finger or two below the hem with each pass of his hand over her hips. She arched her back and hips towards him, aching for more pressure, more contact, just . . . more.

The fingers of one hand expertly undid the button of her shorts, while the other palmed her still covered breast.

The next few minutes were hazy as she pulled garments off of him, and he slid clothes from her. Finally free of their inhibiting garb, her hands pulled across his bare, muscled back to draw him closer. The familiar spicy-sweet smell that made up George enveloped her like a fog, and she buried her face in his neck, breathing in the comfort of his scent. She playfully licked up his neck and drew her tongue along his jaw knowing the response it would create.

He pulled her to him hard, their lips coming together as she frantically grabbed at him, the frenzied swirling of their tongues dancing together driving her senseless. Her hands roamed across his warm skin as his fingers disappeared below the soft thicket of curls at her entrance, the heat of her core gripping him firmly. She broke their kiss as she gasped at the sensation, still unused to the attentions of someone else's fingers in such an intimate place. It took just a few thrusts before she relaxed into him, shamelessly grinding her pelvis over his hand, seeking out more friction. Her nails clawed at his scalp, neck, and shoulders while he placed open mouth kisses along her navel and dragged his tongue lazily along her hip bones.

"Better?" he murmured the question, and Hermione nearly forgot that the hip he was kissing and nibbling was the one she had smashed into the table edge earlier.

She replied with a non-committal, "Mmm," and George went back to his unhurried ministrations, moving now to the soft skin of the underside of her breasts.

The dual sensation of both tongue and fingers made her head spin, and it was all she could do to keep her mind about her as he continued his leisurely pace, sucking and biting across her bare stomach and teasing the sensitive areola and nipples.

Losing patience, she panted, "George . . . please . . ."

He smirked against her skin and then looked up at her with that annoyingly clever grin, as if he had all the time in the world to tease her into insanity. With her grunt of frustration, he laid across her, the weight of his body on hers a welcome change. Her hands eagerly reached between them to grip his hard length, and her eyes bore into his, communicating without words _exactly_ what she was after.

Without needing to be told twice, George finally, _finally_ , sank into her, and Hermione moaned deeply in satisfaction. She fisted her hands in his hair as his tongue danced over her bare skin. Their panting breaths timed his thrusts as he drove into her, and she was gone, carried away in the tide of her pleasure.

She was distantly aware of the warm breath on her neck and the sweat gathering on her as their bodies slid together, but, otherwise, her mind was a welcome emptiness as she relaxed into the collision, embedding herself in him, against him, around him.

The warmth that had been escalating in her core became more and more urgent, until the dam broke, and she came undone, crying out in abandon. A litany of babbling nonsense fell from her lips as she lost herself, completely uninhibited, in her enjoyment of her release as it came crashing over her.

George's thrusts became deeper and harder as he followed quickly after, and a new wave of pleasure washed over her as he emptied himself into her. Basking in the afterglow of indulgence, she rocked her hips gently as the tremors continued to pulse through her.

George slowly moved off of her as he regained his breath. Hermione curled onto her side as he settled himself at her back, the aftershocks beginning to calm. She ignored the uncomfortable sticky feeling between her legs in preference of the satiated buzzing at her core. He toyed with her nipple absentmindedly and peppered languid kisses along her spine, giving her a moment to catch her breath and decelerate her thumping heart. She rubbed her fingers along his forearm and hummed in satisfaction, nestling closer into him.

They rested there together for some time, and in the aftermath of their coupling, Hermione fell completely still. The fog of bliss was driven away as if a mist in the salty-breeze.

Eventually, the quivers of her satisfaction subsided, and she was left with a void which was once filled with her pleasure but was now hollow and willing to be filled with her pain. She drew a tentative breath, but the depth of it was restricted by the overwhelming pressure of guilt that held her diaphragm in a vice. Her shaky exhale was accompanied by an onslaught of unsolicited tears, silent in their descent across her face. She burrowed further into the mattress, willing the humiliating display to end before George took notice. But notice he did.

He turned her gently by the shoulder until her chest was pressed against his. Skin on skin, his firm arms held her tightly while his neck was saturated with her tears. She cried there in his arms for a long while, as he stroked her back and murmured soothingly in her ear. She scarcely heard what he was saying to her, for her mind was wrought with the guilt that plagued her. How could she use him in this way? Take from him her pleasure with no regard for his feelings? _Ginny was right . . ._

He had saved her again and again, pulling her from the depths of their Ocean of Grief in which she longed to sink and never resurface. He held her together, his hands on her skin the glue, and his kisses to her mouth the tape. Without George here, her heart would surely have shattered all over the floor from her open, bleeding chest.

This was a mess, and she was wallowing in the muck of it shamelessly, with no capacity in which to pull herself out. She knew, logically, of course, that she was far too damaged to be carrying on this way with him, the brother of her dead almost-boyfriend. However, logic did not follow her here into the depths of her Grief Ocean; the pitch black water dimmed her senses, and the crushing power of it numbed her. It was only George she could see here, and she let herself get lost in him _completely_.

As she resurfaced from her crying, Hermione was faintly aware of George stroking the length of her jaw with his thumb. When she opened her tear-swollen eyes, his face came into view; it was blurry through the last few tears, but the reassuring smile that broke across it was unmistakable.

"Ah, there you are," he whispered, his eyes glittering with genuine affection.

With a deep, shaky breath she plucked the courage to return a rueful smile. "Yes," she said simply.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he ventured.

"Not right now." With a deep, weary sigh, she snuggled closer into him, shielding her eyes as she attempted to reign in the guilt and replace it with thankfulness.

Could she be _thankful_ for him without being _indebted_ to him? His unguarded acceptance of her was astounding, and she felt she would never be able to repay him the allowances he afforded her. How many men would continue on when their partner routinely had postcoital emotional breakdowns? Surely, he would grow exhausted of her incessant upheavals and find someone less broken, less fucked up.

He gave her ribs a gentle tickle in attempt to draw a laugh out of her now that she was fully recovered, and she responded in kind with a playful jab to his side.

"Oh, she wounds me!" he cried teasingly, his fingers never ceasing in their quest to find her tickle spots.

As quickly as the tears fell, the laughter rose, and she found herself wrestling George under the sheets of her bed, with genuine joy and lightness of heart as her companions. She eventually gained the upper hand in pinning him with her legs on either side of his hips and securing his wrists above his head in her hands. Stuck underneath her, he finally surrendered his struggle. The amorous look on his face tore through her core, and she was awash in something closely resembling contentment. The grin she felt pull at her mouth was all she could do to placate the dizzying delight that his smile caused within her. She might not love this man, but she did like him a great deal, and she could not help but feel a sense of pride in causing the burning desire in him that she felt growing again underneath her.

Suddenly, a light danced into the tent. Hermione turned to look over her shoulder as the shimmering Patronus in the form of a large lynx stalked towards them, pointed ears twitching as Kingsley's voice carried loudly in announcement.

"Everyone, there has been a change in plans. We go to the Ministry tonight. Meet at the Cottage in fifteen minutes."

Scrambling off the bed, Hermione ran to the corner where a pile of freshly laundered clothes were stacked neatly. Mrs Weasley had taken to doing everyone's laundry, leaving Hermione to often wonder if the woman ever slept. She threw on her favourite pair of jeans, holes worn through in the knees and no longer mendable, even by magic. Throwing on a cotton blouse, she then shoved her arms in a jacket and began fumbling with the zipper.

She was aware of the clanking sounds of George's belt buckle as he lazily pulled on his trousers. Distractedly, her mind raced through the possibilities of what was to happen at the Ministry. _Why had plans changed, and what was the new plan? Were they to invade the Ministry? Were they to go head to head with the Death Eaters and attempt to gain back control?_ Her hands worked the zipper up and down, but it was snagged and unmoving.

She huffed in frustration, and a set of strong hands stilled her own. Sighing, she let her hands fall to her sides, and George slid the zipper up with ease. He raised his palm to cup her cheek and rubbed his thumb under her eye, removing a tear that she hadn't even realised was there. Fingers on her chin, he tilted her face up to look at him, but he didn't speak. Eyes locked, she wondered at the intensity of his gaze. She followed his eyes as they flickered across her face before they settled on her lips. As he moved his thumb over her lips, she tasted the salt of her own tears and finally gave way, pressing herself against him as he cradled her head against his bare chest and wrapped strong arms around her back. The rhythmic beats of his heart drummed against her ear, soothing her anxious and tormenting thoughts, supplying her with the courage she desperately needed and drew from him selfishly.

She looked back up. "We have to go, don't we?"

He smiled at her question, and Hermione was caught off guard by his reaction. She was well aware that she was not normally the best at reading people; it was part of the consequence of being too caught up in books to take notice of the implicit social cues of those around her. This usually did not bother her too terribly, however, this smile was not one she was familiar with on George, and she was not sure how to discern its meaning. She studied his features as if they were an old tome which held the secrets to life's questions, and she felt her brows purse together in concentration as she swept across his features with purpose. He did not avert his gaze while under her scrutiny, and he made no move to speak, even though the time she spent staring at him was dragging into the realm of awkwardly unacceptable.

Hermione noted, studiously, that the lines around his eyes were soft and crinkled, poised as if ready for a laugh, though, he did not betray any malice, or derision behind them.

No, this smile was not one meant to poke fun at her question or her apprehension; it was almost tender.

 _Tenderness?_ This countenance of compassion from the man who was quick to hold a jibe on his tongue—just in case. She expected him to laugh at her weakness, tease her vulnerability, and yet, she felt the lack of mockery and condescension like a shock of lightning to her heart. Her stomach dropped, reminding her of the guilt she had yet to resolve.

She took a deep breath and fought the burning in the corners of her eyes as tears began to form again. George leaned in to press a quick kiss into her temple as he hummed into her hair, "I think we should."

She let out a shaky breath and hugged him tighter around the waist, fortifying her bravery as she did.

He spoke again, the words slipping past his lips in husky tones that went straight to her core. "As much as I would love to keep you here in bed and ravish you all night, I think our absence would be pretty obvious."

An amused snort escaped her as she giggled. The tears retreated completely and a genuine smile spread itself across her face to couple the burning in her cheeks.

"And what makes you think I wouldn't take that opportunity to read here in complete solitude for the _entire_ evening?"

"Oh, I know for a fact you are a very talented multitasker," he teased, squeezing her hips under his fingers.

Rolling her eyes and firmly changing the subject, she said, "Let's pack up, shall we?"

"You're so cute when you're blushing," he quipped.

"George, focus!" she chided, her words coming out much less seriously than she intended. "You cannot expect me to be able to fight while so distracted with thoughts of . . ."

He raised his brows into his hairline, and hopeful eyes widened.

"Thoughts of . . ." he encouraged.

She turned adamantly away from him, grabbing her purple beaded bag and perusing the contents distractedly. Perhaps, if she pretended she had not been talking, he would forget she had not finished her sentence.

No such luck.

"You were saying?" he prodded, slipping his arms around her waist and pulling her arse close to him by her hips.

Taking a deep breath, she hastily responded. "I am just saying, it would be horribly distracting to be thinking of you . . . doing _those things . . ._ to me."

"Hmm. These things?"

He kissed the side of her jaw and nibbled on her earlobe. A shiver of desire snaked its way down her spine and in between her legs. _Shit,_ she thought as a soft moan escaped her lips, unbidden.

The tent flap was pushed roughly open, and Hermione jumped sideways, dropping her bag in startled surprise.

"Merlin, Neville, you scared me!" she croaked. Trying to collect herself and look nonchalant, she bent to grab the bag, but George had happened to reach down at the same time and their heads bumped together painfully.

"Oof," he grumbled, rubbing his forehead. "You all right?"

"Fine," she muttered to him, eyes watering from the impact. She was painfully aware that George had not even gotten his shirt back on.

Turning to Neville, she questioned, "Do you need something?" The annoyance at his presence was apparent in her voice, and she didn't try to hide it. She was still really miffed with him and his enthusiasm for fighting with the Order.

Neville stood casually in the tent opening, holding the flap open with a knowing smirk on his lips. His expression was highly irritating, and she wanted nothing more than to smack the look from his face.

"McGonagall sent me to fetch the two of you since we'll be leaving soon. But if you're _busy_ , I am _sure_ I can tell them we need to wait." His words were mocking but lacked the venom of a true judgement.

Neville shifted his footing, still holding the tent flap open as he fidgeted with the edge of the canvas opening. When he noticed her heated gaze, she assumed he'd back down, but instead he pulled his shoulders back and lifted his chin and met her eyes. The old Neville would have never provoked her so directly, and she felt a familiar fire gathering in her belly as she reacted in her Gryffindor stubbornness to not back down.

"Maybe that would be for the best," she snapped, her eyes focused on him in challenge. The fire had taken root in her now, and she felt more confident and bold than she had in weeks. This spat with Neville was just the nerve she needed, and Hermione felt a hum of excitement course through her as her magic instinctively prepared for confrontation. Whether with Neville or during the Ministry raid, she would be ready to fight.

"Yes, well," Neville spoke again, dropping his arms and starting to turn back to the beach, "we are leaving in three minutes. I'm glad you'll be joining us."

He disappeared from her vision as the bright setting sun flooded the tent and burned her eyes. _Did Neville just goad her into coming to the raid?_ Hermione felt her whole body shake with adrenaline as she released one deep exhale.

George came to stand beside her, taking her hand in his, and squeezing hard. The high of anxiety of the oncoming raid was running through her now, and she grasped on to the feeling, letting it lead the way.

"I'm ready," she declared with determination.

Together they walked with a renewed purpose towards the Cottage, gripping her purple bag in one hand and George's hand in the other.

Upon entering the small cottage, she noticed the living room full of Order members, some she had never seen before. There was hardly any room to move about, and they hastily stepped towards the wall next to Lee Jordan and Katie Bell, packed in like sardines. Bill whispered something into Kingsley's ear, and he nodded in confirmation.

Then Kingsley spoke, his booming voice stilling the peripheral chatter of the room. "We have just heard word that the Death Eaters plan on opening the toilets tonight to let their trusted Ministry officials travel home. This may be our only chance to infiltrate the Ministry, so we will need to move on to the second part of the plan."

Kingsley gestured towards Neville, who stood in response before speaking. "We will be working in teams. We will need people to keep watch, people to follow the officials who are leaving, and people to infiltrate the Ministry. You all have your layout of the building." He lifted his parchment in the air before continuing in a serious tone which Hermione had never heard from him before, "If this is done correctly, we may gain control, tonight, of the Ministry and be able to capture the remaining Death Eaters in the process. Kingsley and myself will lead the raid team. Bill will lead a team to follow the officials leaving, and Minerva will explain the roles of those on look out. We will leave in exactly one hour."

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 **A/N:**

This chapter goes to the lovely LoverGurrl411. She has an amazing Dramione marriage law called 'The Silk Thread', and we are obsessed with it.

(You should be too!)

Thank you all for your wonderful reviews to our last chapter. We are so pleased with how this story is developing, and even more so that you are enjoying it with us! We would love to recognise paffrin and Calimocho for their continued support and love!


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Well, you have our deepest apologies for the hold-up on this chapter. We hope you can forgive us for the incredibly long wait!

This chapter is dedicated to our Facebook Fanfiction community at _Home Away From Hogwarts_. We spent the better part of the last three weeks getting it up and running, and we are really proud at how it has turned out! We would be lost without all of our loves there, and are so thankful for each and every one of them. If you are looking for a group to call 'home', please consider searching for it and joining, and let us know if you do. We would love to meet all of our readers. *hearts*

 **Warning:** 39 uses of the F bomb. We really have enjoyed catching up with our Slytherins.

* * *

 **CHAPTER EIGHT**

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Draco and Theo landed in Mortimer Forest close to the Muggle town of Ludlow. The hills around them were tree covered, and the air was damp, moisture clinging to them the moment their feet touched the ground. The douglas firs were thick, and the rush of water reverberating off the trees signaled they had landed close to a stream.

Blaise called out to them, "Oi, hey! Took you guys long enough. Set the wards. Quick!"

Draco held his wand out and began moving his arm in wide swooping figure eight motions while muttering an incantation. Blaise moved next to him, following his lead, and speaking in a low voice, but his wand moved in a much different pattern. They moved together seamlessly in a semicircle; something they had done before, as they cast a variety of spells encasing them against the tall limestone and shale wall to help conceal them from any unwanted attention.

This place was frequented by Muggles for the hiking and geology trails, but had been a place Draco longed to see since his Fifth Year. Professor Binns had mentioned it during a History of Magic class as one of the only magical, historical landmarks that Muggles had stumbled upon, leaving it to be abandoned by the Magical community in the early fourteenth century. The huge rocky cliffs that littered the forest are told to be millions of years old, deposited by a shallow sea that had slowly closed and dried up. The forest floor was scattered with rocks and fossils, and legend has it that there are incredibly rare, small stones that are said to hold magical properties to gain wealth and prosperity, and to guard oneself from evil spirits.

While he mindlessly erected the wards around their site, Draco was flooded with memories of their first time in this forest.

 _Theo, Blaise, and Draco had packed their bags and a bottle of stolen firewhisky, and set off for an adventure to hunt these rare stones down the moment they got off the train at the end of their Fifth Year. Unfortunately, their search was in vain, and they very much doubted the stone's existence by the end of the trip. With crestfallen spirits, they had a rowdy night of drinking and drunken dueling; one last hurrah before they needed to catch the Portkey back to Malfoy Manor. The trio passed out on the ground in the early morning hours from too much spirits, neglecting to make a proper camp._

 _What was an already disappointing trip was made exponentially worse when Draco awoke with a strange face peering down at him. He screamed in shock, and woke the others, scrambling to his feet, wand automatically in hand. Apparently, they had been spotted by a group of concerned, early morning hikers; Muggle hikers. Draco realized his mistake when the strange woman jumped backwards in shock, expecting a weapon, and then laughed at him after realizing he only held a stick. The older woman was accompanied by several others who were hanging back near the tree line, hollering towards her to keep moving. The woman mumbled something about, "Children," and "Not dead, afterall," as she chuckled her way back to her group, shaking her head. Theo and Blaise had struggled to get their bearings through their hangovers, and Blaise, like a bloody idiot, used his wand to Accio his rucksack. This use of magic by an underaged wizard in a mainly Muggle populated area set off a disastrous chain of events, leading to the near expulsion of all of them after appearing before the Wizengamot. It was Draco's mother, Narcissa, who had convinced the panel to let them off, certainly, after a sizeable withdrawal from the family's Gringotts vault in exchange._

 _After that fiasco, Blaise's family set off for Italy for the rest of the holiday, leaving Draco and Theo on their own for the remainder of the summer. Their alcove at Mortimer Forest became a regular place of escape since Draco and Theo's home lives were increasingly less stable as Lucius was incarcerated, and Thoros had started to become more aggressive and abusive towards his nearly adult son. Draco's mother was more than happy to set up Portkeys for them to travel back and forth in an attempt to keep Draco far from the family's growing involvement in the Dark Lord's plans. So, Draco and Theo continued their search for the rare, magical stones, though they always came up empty. Eventually they had to retreat back to Hogwarts for their Sixth year; all memories of the wistful summer spent among the shale rocks and hanging oak trees overtaken by the stresses and realities of impending war and their involvement with it._

Draco was pulled from his musings at Theo's voice. "The next time you three fuckers decide to go and Disapparate without us, could you at least take the fucking bag with you?" Theo croaked menacingly as he dropped the satchel from his shoulder and carefully lowered Keeley to the ground.

Astoria and Pansy both gasped as they watched Theo, and their reaction of shock brought Blaise swiftly to Pansy's side, placing his arm protectively around her waist. Draco noticed what had grabbed the girl's attention and approached Theo slowly, taking in his appearance; his trousers were caked with dirt and torn in random places - no doubt from struggling against the binds his father had put him in. Left behind on his exposed forearms were welted streaks and angry bruises. Theo's face was more haunting than Draco had ever remembered seeing it before; eyes cast down, and brows drawn together tightly. His lids were painted with dark circles which gave the appearance of black eyes and betrayed his absolute grief over the elf. When studied closely, his mouth twitched, threatening to break loose the howl of agony hidden behind his attempted, but failed, mask of impassivity. Theo reached out with one hand and closed the lids over the now blank, unseeing eyes of the creature. Draco walked the remaining few feet to Theo's side and placed a hand awkwardly on his shoulder - a poor attempt at comfort. There wasn't really any comfort to offer in this situation, even if he were good at giving it. Draco knew, after today, his childhood friend would be broken in a way that he hadn't been before; irreparably, suddenly, and quite thoroughly ruined.

"Theo, mate, this isn't your-"

Reaching back, Theo smacked Draco's hand off his shoulder and stood to face him, nose to nose. "Don't fucking tell me this isn't my fault, _Draco_ ," he yelled, the sound echoing off the stone wall, causing a few bits of shale to crumble and fall to the ground. "This is all my fault," he said quietly. A broken sob erupted from his throat, and he sank down to the ground next to the tiny elf's body, placing his palm against her ashen face.

When he moved closer, Draco realized Theo was covered in blood; a mixture of his own, his father's, and Keeley's. If they had been in the Forbidden Forest, Draco would have been nervous of a Thestral being lured to their hiding spot. The rotten stench of it attacked his senses, and Draco suddenly gagged as the bile threatened to come up his throat. The rush of the encounter with Thoros was swiftly evaporating, and the consequences of what exactly took place came flooding over him. He spun quickly, walking away from the group and past the wards. The air was cool, but his face felt flushed, and he knew that he was going to retch by the sudden excess of saliva pooling in his mouth. Once out of earshot of the others, he braced himself against the rough trunk of a tree. He focused on the feel of the bark against his palm and let the leaves brush against his head, attempting to will away the sensation of having to heave, pulling air through his lungs instead.

He was used to having a wall up at all times, fearing what pain would come crashing down upon him if he were to ever let that wall down. Learning the art of Occlumency had only enhanced his ability to hide behind that wall, but the after effects of using the Torture Curse could always break through. Draco knew this feeling all too well, and he hated it. He couldn't deflect the memories of being under the curse himself, strong and painful, from the hands of his own aunt, each nerve ending sliced open and raw until the only sensation his body felt was infinite, torturous pain. The screams of the Muggles he was forced to watch be tortured by the Dark Lord sounded in his ears. Worst of all were the haunting images that played across his lids of the children he was forced to practise this curse on. How many countless others had he tortured by now? He was barely eighteen, and yet, Thoros was just a drop in the bucket. And the blood, so much blood. His body began to tremble as the faces of his schoolmates, in agony at his hands, flashed before his eyes. The vomit was forced from him against his will, covering the dirt at his feet. Wiping his chin with his sleeve, he backed away and shakily lowered himself onto a boulder a few feet away from the putrid stench.

"Hey arsehole, you alright?"

Draco rolled his eyes before turning to the voice he knew all too well. Pansy was standing a few yards away with a smug look painted across her pale face. Pansy had the annoying habit of knowing too much about Draco, seeing through his airs, and showing up at the most inopportune moments. Of course, they had spent their childhoods together, so she was always there, but what may have once been a comforting presence had now become severely off-putting. She wasn't his girlfriend, and he didn't need someone rooting around in his business all of the time. Yet, it seemed she couldn't break the habit after all of these years of doing exactly that.

"I'm fine," he spat. "What do you want?"

She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows at his aggressive tone. Making her way towards him, she sat down against a large boulder before continuing with a smirk. "Oh, really? So, do you always puke when you're _fine_?"

Rolling his eyes again, he swallowed his frustration and ground out, "Fucking go away, Pansy. I'm not in the mood."

She replied with a quick exhale, and tossed her head back, throwing her hair across his face in the movement. "I don't care what you're in the mood for. I am here on behalf of my two friends, and you're going to listen to what I have to say." He didn't spare her a glance as he huffed his disagreement.

She continued on, unruffled by his temperament. "You see, Draco, Theo has taken his elf and left the wards, much like you did, without a word." He turned his head at the news, and watched as she ignored his gaze and instead made a show of analyzing her fingernails. "Poor Blaise came back with a welted chest from an apparent Stinging Hex. It seems Theo won't let anyone in but you."

"Just leave him alone," Draco grunted dispassionately. "He'll come back."

"Maybe he will, maybe he won't," Pansy mused silkily. "But either way, I'd rather you fix him yourself than leave me with two broken idiots to deal with." Her eyes met his now, and they bore into him, determined.

"You're such an interfering bitch," Draco hissed between gritted teeth, attempting to keep his anger in check. "I am not fucking you anymore, Pansy. Go order Blaise to do your bidding." He threw an indignant glance in her direction, and she merely smiled at him in response. The smile was the picture perfect replication of one his mother often gave him. To the untrained eye it almost resembled pity, or empathy, but Draco knew, all too well, the expression was really a maneuver to control his reaction; a reminder that he wasn't living up to the expectations set for him, and a reassurance that she would deal with him later should he not right himself. Ever the picture of social grace, it was a subtle tactic Narcissa used with her son when out in public, or in the presence of company. He didn't appreciate the attempt at manipulation from his mother then, and it was certainly not well received from Pansy here and now.

Her demeanor was unaffected by his words, and she tossed her hair again while standing and lifting her chin. She paced a few steps away from him and, with her back turned to him, spoke evenly, "You will do this, Draco." Letting out an exasperated sigh, she continued unemotionally, "Theo is your friend, and I don't have the patience to watch _both_ of you fall apart. Salazar knows I have seen enough of you barely holding it together the last two years."

Draco stood abruptly, kicking at the uneven earth with his feet as he did. He rounded on her aggressively, putting his face right up to hers in challenge. Enunciating each word, he spat as he spoke. "And you think you know me so well that you can tell _me_ how to be _his_ friend?"

She met his eyes, refusing to be dissuaded from her objective. "Of course I know you, Draco," she reminded him, and he staggered backwards a hair, momentarily humbled at the implication of their past. "I have always known you," she said plainly.

The girl was infuriating. He knew she was right in some ways, and yet, he was still pissed at her blatant handling of him. It was one of the reasons they would have never worked out; she was always, always vying for power _over_ him. Even now, when he was clearly trying to push her off, she persisted.

"Just go the fuck away, Pans," he said after taking a moment to bridle his anger with the witch. She might annoy the piss out of him, but she didn't deserve his full wrath, not truly. "I need a minute to… to collect myself."

"And then you will find him?" she demanded.

"Yes. I will bloody find him."

"You had better." She glared across at him, silently daring him to fuck this up.

Draco turned away, sighing deeply in surrender. He did not have the energy to fight this out with her, and she would not go until she had the last word and belief that she had won. Satisfied, Pansy stood and began to walk back towards the barrier of their wards. Closing his eyes, he raised his head to the sky and breathed in strongly through his nose, grateful for the smell of the damp earth and fir needles rather than the aroma of blood, bile, and fear; though, it wasn't enough to chase away the demons still screaming in his head. He felt his hands begin to shake, and he groaned. Letting his head fall into his hands, he rubbed against the skin vigorously. He needed something to calm the rapid beating of his heart and the sudden feeling of his stomach doing flips again in his belly. Standing, he turned around and placed his hands flat on the limestone rock. His eyes fluttered open briefly, and he noticed that Pansy had left him the exact thing he needed to help curb these tremors; a small phial, filled with a pearly lavender coloured potion, was perched next to where she had been sitting.

He greedily gulped the Draught of Peace down and pocketed the empty phial. Within seconds, a numbness spread from his belly outwards, racing to each part of his body. The feeling tingled as it travelled to his fingers and toes, and as the potion's effects reached his head, suddenly, the worries and taunting images were gone to be replaced with an empty space that was remarkably welcoming. His racing heart slowed to a steady trot, and the sticky cold sweats had faded while the rumbling of his stomach settled. Breathing a sigh of relief, he turned and made his way back towards their hidden camp.

Pansy was right, of course, much to Draco's annoyance. Theo was nowhere in sight when he reentered their wards. Astoria was sitting, back leaned against the limestone wall, and the book he had loaned her was propped open on her knees. The thought of teasing her for actually doing what he recommended her to do briefly crossed his mind, but he decided to ignore her and walked towards Blaise and Pansy instead. They were rummaging through the bag, attempting to pull out the tangle of poles, ropes, and canvas.

"Blaise, which way did Theo go?"

Blaise grunted as he heaved a mass of canvas from the magically extended knapsack, and pointed distractedly to a path to the south which lead to a secluded part of the forest less travelled by tourists. There were many large boulders that way, and the trees grew closer together making the hiking rough.

"Ok, I'll be back."

Draco began the hike through the forest. He may not be the type to enjoy hiking in his day to day life, but over their many trips here in search of the power which the fabled stones offered, he had learned to find sanctuary in the exertion of using his muscles. Much like their previous summers here, the hike was strenuous, and his muscles stretched and pulled, making him grateful for being outside versus in the enclosed confines of the barn. His mind rocked back and forth with each step he took, still satisfyingly empty, and though he noticed the burn that was beginning to grow in his thighs and calves, he relished in the feeling.

He scanned the landscape looking for signs of Theo's presence. He had a pretty good idea that Theo would head to the thickest part of the forest, and was not surprised when he fought through a tangle of thicket to see Theo standing on the other side.

"Did Pansy send you?" Theo asked, not turning around to look at him.

Draco quickly assessed the freshly turned dirt which was piled into a small mound by Theo's feet. Theo's hands were still covered in blood, and now they were also caked with dirt. He held a small spade loosely at his side which Draco assumed he had transfigured. "Yes, Pansy sent me. She mentioned you may not want to be alone."

"She is such a nosy fucking bitch," Theo retorted.

Draco snorted in agreement, knowing Theo felt the same way as he did about the girl. She had always been a part of their group, a fixture in their tight knit circle, and they were stuck with her no matter how infuriating she was. She grew up with horrendous parents just like the others, though her home life was determinedly less dramatic than Theo's, or even Draco's. But regardless, she was one of the few who didn't need an explanation for every nuanced glance, or subtle nod, so she was quickly integrated into their little, elite club. It is not as if they would even have a choice in the matter; their parents pressured them to keep well-bred and appropriate associations, and the Parkinson's were among the approved selections.

Draco and Theo stood in silence, taking in the sounds around them; avoiding whatever emotional conversation needed to happen next. The birds chirped and tweeted a melody, and the squirrels jumped playfully between the hanging oak trees above them, disturbing the leaves and further bending the arching branches.

Theo suddenly interrupted the stillness and turned to Draco with his hand out, fist closed, offering something to him. Draco noticed his friend's puffy eyes and reddened nose. He had been crying - hard it seemed. "Did I ever tell you about the time I came here alone?" Theo asked without looking at him.

Draco instinctively opened his palm, and Theo dropped a small white stone the size of a galleon into his hand. A pleasant buzzing sensation erupted over his skin at the contact. He ran his thumb over the stone, feeling the corrugated waves on the surface which were so subtle they went unnoticed by sight alone. He moved his eyes from the stone in his hand to Theo's face, whose expression was somber and despondent.

"Theo is this… is this-?"

Theo's face morphed from the sullen and sorrow-filled expression into something different. His dark eyes began to sparkle mischievously, and his lips curled into a proud smirk. "Yes, Draco, it bloody well is."

Draco looked from his palm, still stroking the tiny stone, back up to Theo's face. "But how? How did you get this? Where did you get this? Does it-"

Theo let out a rough laugh from his hoarse throat, which silenced the forest activity around them. "Draco, I'll explain everything to you, but…" Theo paused, grabbing the stone from his palm as his eyes slid back to dark haunted shadows, "this stone… it's for Keeley. She fucking suffered enough with my father as her master, and I want this stone to protect her. We don't fucking know what awaits her - or any of us, really - in the next life, but she shouldn't have to bloody face evil wherever it is she is."

A cold shiver spread over his skin when Theo pulled the rock from his hand, almost like a mist settling over him, raising goosebumps in its wake. A small bit of greed itched its way out of his now empty palm, urging him to fill it again with the magical stone. He watched as Theo knelt and placed the smooth stone at the head of the freshly turned earth, gently pushing it down until it was hidden from view. He ran his hand over the spot, spreading the dirt carefully before finally patting the ground softly twice and standing.

Draco felt a twinge of regret knowing the stone was being used to guard a dead house-elf. It made no sense to him that Theo would squander such a coveted treasure, but it didn't feel right arguing with him either.

The old voice that seemed to plague Draco these days - the one that murmured, "steal, horde, sell," at frequent intervals as he'd looked over the items of value in the Manor - was loudest now as Theo buried what was surely an invaluable item. He fought his demons of greed and fear, grateful for the potion he had that was keeping him remotely blank and relaxed, and tried not to get anxious about what would happen when it dissipated.

 _Damn, Pansy!_ he thought to himself. He knew that she'd done him a favor by providing him with the potion, but its effects would be wearing off soon, and he would want another - need another. He didn't like the term _addict_ because that implied a lack of control, and he was a Malfoy; Malfoys never lost control. His life had been extremely trying over the past two years, so he didn't think it was particularly unreasonable to use a little medicinal help to pull through, especially if it meant he kept his sanity. The fact that the potion was habit forming hadn't scared him in the least - he was a _Malfoy,_ after all, fear had no place in his consideration.

Looking back, he could see that he should have been more conservative in the beginning, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He'd struggled tremendously in his Sixth Year at Hogwarts with the impossible task set before him by the Dark Lord. With his father imprisoned, it was Draco who took the Malfoy's seat at the table among Death Eaters, and he had had insurmountable pressure to continue his family's legacy within those ranks. Pansy had been the one to help him keep his grasp on himself and reality that year, and he often lost himself in the comfort of a companion who did not ask questions when he came back to their shared prefect dormitory with trembling limbs and a cloak covered in blood. However, the real difference for Draco was made by the potions. Draught of Peace during the day and Pain Potion at night helped to keep the tormenting images from completely consuming him. That particular path of compulsion was one that nearly cost him his life at a few turns, but he liked to think he had a better handle on it these days. He wrapped what was left of his iron will around the slithering snake of need in his belly, and stuffed it back in the box where it came from. One potion would be enough, at least for today.

Theo rose and turned to leave the gravesite, approaching the tangle of brambles and thorns and began to pick his way through them, occasionally using his wand to levitate branches away from him. Draco followed behind, and soon they left the thickest part of the forest and began to walk between the trees in a comfortable silence. Draco was waiting for Theo to explain the stone but knew better than to ask. His friend was mourning, and he would talk when he was ready - he always did.

"I know you're fucking dying to know about the stone," Theo finally stated. "I'm quite impressed you kept your mouth shut this long," Theo quipped a bit breathlessly as they hiked up a small ravine.

Draco snorted, realizing the shift in Theo's mood. Draco responded jokingly, leaving the heaviness of grief behind. "I am _quite_ an impressive person."

Theo laughed quietly as he pulled himself the remaining few feet up the incline onto level ground. "Well, after our many failed attempts to find the stones, I became a bit obsessed. It was something to occupy my energy in the midst of..." he paused, and looked a bit uncertainly over to Draco. "I needed something to keep my mind busy while fucking watching you crumble to shit from afar." Draco made to interrupt, but Theo raised his hand to silence him. "I'm not done, dickhead."

He continued, "Ok, so, you remember Binns telling us this whole area used to be underwater? Well, it occurred to me that these stones were made from fucking water magic."

Theo spoke with excitement in his voice, but there was also a note of apprehension coloring his words, as if he wanted to keep the magic of the stone a secret for himself. Draco kept his pace steady and didn't speak. He was shocked Theo had referenced anything about Draco coming apart. They had never acknowledged it overtly, and he wasn't even sure that Theo knew the extent of what he went through as a Death Eater, but the admission made it plain that Theo saw more than he had previously let on. Draco's mind started spinning with worry over what exactly Theo knew, and what angle he was playing at by bringing it up now. Thankfully, he had the benefit of the potion still coursing through his veins, and his thoughts rocked around in his mind unfocused, once again clearing to the familiar, uncomplicated haze that allowed Draco to focus on simple tasks like inhaling and exhaling properly.

"So, once I realized it could contain water magic, I read up on the different elemental magics," Theo continued. "As wizards we use a lot of earth magic since we live on the earth, build from earth, eat from the earth, fucking get buried in the earth…" He trailed off with a rough clearing of his throat, no doubt remembering the creature he just finished burying in the earth, the evidence of the shallow grave still imbedded in the nails he was picking at.

Theo breathed deeply, and Draco considered offering a consolatory pat on his shoulder, but decided against it; they were not the sort to touch one another casually, and he wasn't going to start now. After a while, Theo started up again. "And, anyways, each person's magic has a signature that matches an element - earth, fire, wind, water. Apparently, water is a very rare and particularly powerful magical signature. A lot more fucking powerful than most understand." Theo paused for a while to study Draco's face. He really seemed apprehensive to share any more, so Draco nodded in understanding, and kept silent in hopes that Theo would continue. He knew that most men would share their secrets, eventually - it just took a captive audience and lots of silence to get it out of them.

"I wondered why wizards left this area if it was so fucking magical. Why the hell would they let the Muggles take over? Did they not understand the magnitude of magic that this place holds? How could they just simply give it up?"

Draco was thoroughly engrossed in what Theo was explaining. From the beginning he had the same thoughts. He never understood why they didn't protect this place of magic like they did the rest of their world.

Theo continued, "Well, I found out that a Wizard in the fourteenth century called Aslan protected this place _by opening_ it up to Muggles. It made wizard's keep the fuck away, and in turn, kept the water magic safe from misuse."

"Theo, this is all so _interesting_ ," Draco drawled sarcastically, attempting to hide his very obvious preoccupation with the subject at hand. "But what does this fucking have to do with the stone?"

Theo stopped walking and leaned against the nearest tree, his expression serious and contemplative. Draco paused beside him and shuffled a few rocks around in the dirt with the toe of his dragon-hide boot. "Wind is calm and serious, while earth is stubborn and prideful, and fire is aggressive and hot tempered; water could be none, or it could be all, and any fucking shift of the tide can change it," Theo explained, his expression somewhat grim. "All life needs to change to survive, and water can't be destroyed; just recycled. And these stones do a hell of a lot more than just protect the holder of evil, or darkness," he added. "They make the holder into whatever is necessary at that moment. They clear the mind and open the soul, they cleanse the spirit and grow the heart, or so the books say. They're not light or dark, but they're" - he paused, shrugging - "both, I guess."

"I take it you learned this from a book written by Albus Dumbledore?" Draco countered when Theo was done. While intrigued, yes, Draco didn't want to divulge his extreme interest in learning more about these stones. He had a deep craving to hold the rock in his hand and feel the magic shift over his skin again, but instead, he continued to hold Theo's gaze with an impassive face, trying to play off his attentiveness with aloofness.

"Of course," Theo agreed. "The guy was a fucking nutter, but he knew his shit." There was a long pause between them, and Theo searched Draco's eyes, and opened his mouth as if ready to say something but then closed it again.

"What?" Draco questioned.

"Nothing... It's… It's just… nothing," Theo waffled.

"No, you're not getting off that easy. Spit it out," Draco insisted.

Theo took a big breath and let out one exhale filled with the words he had been holding back. "If a witch or wizard shares the same elemental magical signature of the object they wield then the object's magic is amplified."

"You sound like bloody Granger. What does that even mean?" Draco insisted impatiently.

Theo caught Draco's eyes and looked at him intensely. "If a person whose magical signature element was water found one of these water magic stones… they would be pretty damn indestructible."

Draco's face fell in shock. He had not even had a moment to process the words before a zipping _whoosh_ rustled the leaves above them.

The pair quickly slipped their wands from their forearm holsters to their palms, and aimed at the sky.

The _whoosh_ cut through the air once more, close enough to ruffle the hair on top of his head, before the image of one Blaise Zabini came into view.

"Oh, there you guys are!" he hollered, jumping a few feet from his broom to the ground. "I have been sent to fetch-"

"You fuckwit. I nearly blew your head off just now!" Draco growled through clenched teeth, anger seething at the near miss.

"Er. Sorry?" he replied dispassionately. "Camp is set up. Just thought you oughta know."

Theo closed the few paces between them and slugged Blaise hard on his right arm. "You fucking dickhead. Draco's right."

"Fuck. That fucking hurt, Nott!" Blaise rubbed at the sore spot with a pout.

"Good. You deserved worse." Draco scoffed, still fuming, but slid his wand back into his sleeve.

Blaise walked to lean against the tree Theo had previously occupied. Pulling a bottle of firewhisky from his cloak pocket, he lifted it up past his shoulder with a wince and a groan - apparently having forgotten about the punch to the bicep a few moments earlier. He passed the bottle to his uninjured hand and asked, "Care to toast? To being laid regularly!" Both Theo and Draco rolled their eyes as Blaise drank deeply from the bottle.

Blaise handed the bottle to Theo who raised it in the air. "To being the fuck out of that barn!"

Draco took the offered bottle and studied the amber liquid as sunlight illuminated the gold flecks floating in it. "To fucking firewhisky," he mumbled, taking a long swig and relishing in the numbing burn on his throat which left a warmth deep in his belly. _Yes,_ he considered, _I may not have potions, but I have_ this.

The trio hiked the remaining length of the hallowed ravine in silence. Theo would sniff and cough every once in awhile, but neither Draco, nor Blaise looked in his direction, giving him what privacy they could. Draco still held the neck of the whiskey bottle, drinking from it mindlessly.

As they approached the barrier of the wards, the sky darkened suddenly, and instinctively, the three looked up with wands raised to the sky. A group of hooded figures flew overhead on brooms, straight toward their camp. Draco's heart beat pounded against his ears, and his mind sharpened with determination. _Fuck,_ he thought. _It couldn't just be fucking easy for once?_

They ran the remaining distance into their camp as the wards were immediately broken through. Draco looked around the site frantically as curses lit the darkening sky. A large chunk of the limestone and shale wall splintered away, crumbling to pieces just feet away from Astoria.

 _Fucking bollocks! Fuck, shit, fuck, fuck!_ Draco rushed to the girl leaving Blaise and Theo to protect themselves. Astoria had her head hunched between her knees and arms thrown atop it protectively. He scooped her away from any remaining debris, and threw hexes over his shoulder absentmindedly, praying to whatever deity existed that the others were shielding themselves properly.

They ran to the opposite side of the enclosure as spells zoomed all around them. Draco and Astoria paused against a boulder, out of view of the main scuffle, and took a moment to catch their breaths. Quickly after they arrived, a frantic Pansy, followed closely by Blaise, crouched low to the ground beside them. Pansy dropped Draco's Extended bag between them. "I…" she huffed through labored breaths, "couldn't get…" she gasped shakily trying to gain control of her breathing, "everything… but the tent… is here." She finally took a few deep breaths and slumped to the ground in exhaustion.

Draco peeked out from their hiding place, spotting Theo completely exposed in the open, battling three hooded figures. He quickly ducked back behind the boulder as a red light flew in their direction. "Fuck. I have to go back and get Theo," Draco groaned. "He is out of his fucking mind right now. He is going to get himself -"

"Stop this instant! You aren't going anywhere." Astoria threw her arm out across his chest, physically stopping him from moving forward.

"Fucking make me stay!" he challenged. "Tell me he isn't fucking worth it!" He didn't wait for a response before he stormed off, wand ready to fight. He dodged the flashes of light, ducking behind trees before firing off his own hexes and running for cover behind the next tree. Theo was getting closer, and Draco could tell he was having a tough time keeping up with the older wizards being outnumbered and unwilling to throw Dark curses around frivolously. Draco reached around the tree and shot a Stunner Spell at one of the men, bringing him down. A flash of white light flew past him, missing his face by mere inches. He looked around, spotting a hooded figure sprawled on the ground a yard away from him. Turning, he spotted Pansy crouched low behind a wall of stone beside Blaise, who saluted Draco with two fingers, and wore a smug look of accomplishment on his face.

Astoria appeared at his side behind a nearby tree, looking nervous and winded as she asked, "How do we get him without getting ourselves killed?"

Theo was still dueling two Death Eaters and was being pushed back towards them. "First, you need to get the fuck back." Draco ignored her and returned his attention on Theo who was quickly tiring, struggling to just keep his shield up while the curses were coming fast and deadly from the other men. Draco knew they didn't have much time. He stepped out from behind the tree, hoping to distract the men so that he could reach Theo and get him out of here. Draco shot another stunner at one of the masked men, not daring to use anything more damaging, lest he hit Theo; the curse hit its mark, and the remaining man, noticing he was out numbered, Disapparated on the spot.

"Fucking coward," Theo laughed, running his forearm over his face, ridding it of the sweat that drenched his skin.

Draco left the tree line to join his friend. "Theo this isn't a bloody game. How the hell did they find us?" Draco asked sternly. "We need to get out of here, now!" he added, his voice harsh and full of anxiety.

Suddenly, a shrill scream, which was quickly muffled, sounded from behind. Draco and Theo turned around in time to see Thorfinn Rowle step out from behind the tree where Draco had left Astoria. His hand covered Astoria's face, while his other arm was wrapped around her middle, dragging her into the open. "Well, if it isn't the runaway baby Death Eaters," Rowle said, before burying his face in Astoria's hair, breathing in loudly through his nose. Astoria shuddered and began squirming in her captor's hold as tears ran down her face and small whimpers of fear escaped her throat.

Draco and Theo raised their wands, but lowered them just as quickly when the Death Eater removed his arm from around her waist and replaced his hand by her throat, wand point digging roughly into the bottom of her chin. "Now, no one has to get hurt. I'm here to take you back to your parents, is all. If you come along quietly, all the better. Although, I don't mind if this one wants to scream a bit." He smirked and winked at them.

"Fuck off, loser," Pansy cried, making Rowle turn suddenly towards her voice. Draco didn't hesitate a second before using the opportunity of the distraction, firing a curse which brought the Death Eater to the ground instantly as blood poured from large slices in his chest and abdomen. Astoria looked down upon the gruesome sight, and her face grew pale as her body began to sway precariously. Draco lunged forward to close the gap between himself and the girl, catching her by the arms just before she fainted.

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 **~Thank you to** **arm56** **,** **hellina2000** **for all of your thoughtful reviews the last few chapters. So glad to have you reading along with us!~**


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

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Before she knew it, Hermione found herself standing with George outside the red telephone booth that lead to the Ministry of Magic's visitor's entrance. The unseasonably cool air whipped past them in the wind, and the drizzle pricked painfully at her skin like thousands of invisible needles. Her damp jacket stuck to her back where she stood against the building's stone wall with one foot propped up to support her weight. Meanwhile, George was standing under the nearby street lamp, idly reading the political section of a Muggle newspaper. He had put an Impervius Charm above his head and over the paper to deter the wind and rain, but Hermione, oddly, fancied the feeling of the sharp droplets hitting her skin, so she opted for no protection—though, she was now regretting her poor choice of holey jeans as they left her knees, which were already chapping in the chilly wind, unprotected.

The wide street, normally restless with the hustle and bustle of activity of government bureaus, was now eerily empty of the throngs of workers going to and fro. She felt quite exposed out here, in an otherwise empty street, trying to look unassuming. Their susceptibility added to her anxiety at having been sent to this post. When she had agreed with George to participate in the raid, she did not realize her agreement meant they would be given a lookout role instead of a fighting one.

Hermione felt like she was going through emotional whiplash.

The high of enjoying George earlier that morning was quickly overtaken by the Order's decision to post them here, and she was left with only anger. The subtext among everything the Order communicated to her was that they didn't trust her. She may not have been as involved as she could have been at the meetings, but she had been an integral member in the trio's crusade to end Voldemort. Kingsley and Neville and Bill were not out there hunting Horcruxes and risking their lives to save the Wizarding world. Sure, they had their part, but after everything she had survived the past few years, it really seriously hurt that they didn't trust her. Had she lost herself after Harry and Ron's deaths? Absolutely—and she wasn't the only one. Wouldn't the adrenaline of actually participating in the raid be the perfect reminder that she was, in fact, still alive? Had the others passed some sort of litmus test to prove their ability to fight that she had failed? The more she thought about it the more angry she became.

"I can't believe they wouldn't let me go on the raid," she said glancing towards George who seemed to be consumed in his paper. "Do they think I can't be trusted?" Hermione heard her voice raise to a disgruntled squeak on the last few syllables and silently chided herself for sounding so fretful.

When George did not look up, she turned her head away with an eyeroll and looked through the rain down the long street.

Muttering more to herself than anyone, she said, "Honestly, of all of the people on that team . . . _I_ fought alongside Harry for months!" She kicked her foot back against the wall behind her, crossing her arms resentfully.

At this point, she was fuming, and George's indifference only added to the urgency she felt in her anger.

"George! How are you just okay with this?" she demanded. He didn't look up to her, seemingly oblivious to her question as he continued to peruse the paper with feigned interest. She knew that he was ignoring her, but she couldn't be arsed to care at the moment, her own incensed anger with the Order driving her tirade.

In a silly accent, which was a poor imitation of Minerva, she continued, "'Why don't the two of you keep watch by the entrance. We need strong fighters there should any trouble arise . . .'" With a growl she ground out, "Really?! Does she think we are that bloody incapable? They are not as inconspicuous as they would like to think they are, and I hate to think they will regret not having our help when the time comes!"

George sighed heavily. "Are you quite finished?"

With her jaw dropped in shock, she cried tersely, "Excuse me?" She raised her voice towards him now, turning her anger on him. "George, I am really upset right now, and you . . ." She pointed a finger at his chest. The aggressive action caused him to abandon the paper, folding it back towards his abdomen, and he finally looked up at her. Her breath caught momentarily at the softness behind his eyes, and a little bit of her anger towards him dissolved without permission.

Apparently, it was very difficult to really yell at the man she was sleeping with when he looked at her with eyes like that. Her mouth was still running without thought, but she heard the words come out as less of an accusation and more of a plea.

"You act as if you don't even care about them pushing us off to the side . . . like schoolchildren who have no experience in battle . . ." she trailed off, unsure about this strange turn in her rant.

He was watching her with a strange expression which Hermione couldn't place. She thought he would be angry with her, or even share her anger for their place as lookout, but she felt almost pitied by the persistent gaze boring into her. She searched his eyes frantically for any flicker of indignation, but there was nothing there. Just warm hickory brown and _knowing_. He was staring right through her—into her, really—as if he knew she would feel this way, _be_ this way. He was not surprised by her petulant display, and even more disconcerting was his calm, collected reaction which contrasted with the very wild and uncontrolled feelings raging through her.

"George—I —" She looked insecurely at her feet, realizing how ridiculous she had been the last few minutes and feeling instantly guilty for taking it out on him. She sighed, now furious with herself. This was yet another dramatic emotional shift. _More whiplash, great._

George stroked a thumb along her jaw, and leaned to place a soft kiss on the top of her curls. She looked up at him then and placed her hand gingerly over his chest, relishing in the steady heartbeat under her fingertips which grounded her.

"I am a complete arse, aren't I?" she asked him calmly.

He chuckled softly before confirming, "Just a little bit." She scrunched her nose in response, groaning at her own childishness. "But you're _my_ arse," he added.

She smiled brightly at him and reached up on tip toes to brush a kiss along his jaw in apology.

George, it seemed, was still saving her.

She was pulled from her musings quite suddenly as a head began to rise from the floor of the phone booth. George must have noticed too as she felt him stiffen at her side, wand replacing the newspaper. A shadowed face appeared first, but it wasn't until the person was nearly the whole way up the lift that the overcast light revealed the form of Alecto Carrow. She had never met the witch, but she had seen numerous articles in the _Prophet_ about the set of twins who reigned under Snape at Hogwarts last year.

Alecto's wand was raised, and she looked past the couple with a twisted sneer spreading itself over her unremarkable, pale face.

A voice cackled from behind them. "Oh, look at what we have here. I suppose _you're_ the _look out_ , huh?" They turned in time to notice Amycus Carrow, Alecto's twin brother, stalking towards them out of a shadow of a nearby building. George raised his wand, but was promptly disarmed by the older Death Eater.

Hermione began to regret her haste to complain about their post, feeling ill prepared for this unfortunate meeting. Now that George was wandless, she wasn't quite sure what to do. She turned back towards Alecto as the sound of the door of the telephone booth opening brought her to the realisation that they were outmatched; two wands to one. She took a few moments to rack her brain for anything she possibly knew about the siblings. Wading through the fog of emotions and insecurities, she vaguely remembered overhearing Neville speaking to someone about the Carrow twins and their role in the demise of Hogwarts that final year. She also recalled him saying they weren't the brightest of pairs.

Hermione slowly began to move herself and George to stand in between the two. George had his back to her, and she could feel him stiffen at being caught smack in the middle of the pair of Death Eaters, wandless and defenseless. He was facing Amycus, and Hermione was staring into the dull eyes of Alecto. Hermione decided to take a gamble, the risk would be worth it if she were right, and, one wand down, they didn't have much of a shot anyways.

"So, you're the twins everyone is talking about," Hermione taunted. "They all wonder if you're even alive, unsure if you'd be smart enough to get yourself out of Ravenclaw tower before all of Hogwarts fell."

Hermione grinned to herself as she watched the woman slowly work through her words. As the meaning dawned on her, Hermione noted the flick of Alecto's wand and pulled George down on the ground next to her. The witch's curse flew past them, landing dead center in her brother's chest. Before Alecto could move away, Hermione stunned the woman.

George looked down at the fallen twins and back at Hermione, eyes wide with impressed shock.

"Yes," he chuckled, "I do believe we are needed inside. Your efforts will be much better utilized in the raid."

He grabbed his wand from the ground by Amycus' limp form, and Hermione snatched the wands from the felled twins, putting them in her beaded bag which was tied to her waist through her belt loop. Together, Hermione and George walked down the sidewalk towards the public underground toilets, wands held tight and their heads bowed against the unrelenting wind.

Of course, the Order—including Bill's team—were all gone. Godric knows where they ended up since Hermione and George had been sent to their post before hearing the totality of their plans. Hermione groaned in annoyance. This raid was turning out to be more and more frustrating as time went on.

When she finally turned to complain to George, he was looking at her with giddy delight. She noticed his eyes sparkling with a familiar mischief that she had not seen since Fred's death four weeks prior. Hermione watched him with anxious anticipation of what could possibly be running through his head.

"The tunnels!" he exclaimed with glee as if those two words were supposed to have meant something to her.

She was sure her eyebrows were pulled high in confusion, but he did not pause to explain and instead pulled her hand to run in the opposite direction.

"Ge—orge—" She tried to catch his attention through ragged breaths. Her lungs were sore from the exertion of running and trying to keep up with his long strides. He didn't look behind him and continued on to some unknown location.

Finally, he stopped in front of a small Muggle grocery. He turned to her with the widest smile, and her stomach flipped with eager suspense. George was like a kid in Honeydukes, and his excitement was contagious.

"This, m'lady, is the humble shop in which Fred and I gained access to Dad's office at the end of our fifth-year in order to test our Demon Dung Firecrackers in the corridors and lifts!" His eyes glittered with pride, and he held himself straight with his chin jutting up in the air.

"George, you did what?!" she screeched. "What a horrible prank to play!"

"That's beside the point. The real point is, that we used this shop to _gain access_ . . ." The last two words were emphasised as if she were a small, misunderstanding child. His eyes glittered as he waited for it to sink in.

The implication of his words finally dawned on her, and she clapped her hand over her mouth with a gasp. She pointed a finger of that same hand to him and accused, "You know a secret entrance into the Ministry of Magic!"

His eyebrows waggled in mischief. "Of course I do! We were working on a map similar to the Marauder's for the Department of Defense, but it wasn't finished since you lot went and angered that snake-faced-man and our efforts had to go into keeping you all safe. There are loads of underground tunnels and secret passageways all over this city. They all go right into the heart of the Ministry—"

She cut off his explanation, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. "Oh George, you're brilliant. Absolutely, bloody brilliant!" He returned the hug, and lifted her off her feet to spin her around. The rain was picking up, and her unruly curls were now a large ball of frizz, with beads of precipitation collecting on the flyaways and soaking to her scalp.

Setting her down, he offered a hand chivalrously and asked, "Care to adventure with me?"

"Of course I will, you daft man." She smiled brightly back at him, feeling the lightness of hope in her chest.

They walked through the small market towards the back where the staff room was. There was a simple break room with a table in the center, a kitchenette in the corner, and lockers along the wall opposite them. George approached a locker door that had a sticker placed over it labeled 'BROKEN.' He took out his wand and muttered something under his breath too quiet for her to pick up and firmly yanked the locker door open, revealing a dark, descending stairway behind it. George stepped down the first step before looking back and motioning her to follow. As they travelled downward, Hermione noted it smelled musty and damp, and there was no natural light; clearly they were headed underground.

Taking the last step of the stairs, her feet found even ground, and she slipped her wand into her hands out of the holster secured to her forearm. Hermione felt a sense of peace at the feel of the vine wood in her palm.

" _Lumos_ ," she whispered, and George did the same.

Once they made their way into the length of the corridor it became much more narrow, and the ceiling was quite low. George led the way, crouched over to avoid smacking his head on the concrete above them. The solid floor turned to gravel, and he kicked a few pebbles forward accidentally, causing a loud echoing clamor to run along the length of the narrow hallway. She placed a hand on his back to still him, and he turned his head to look at her. She pointed at their feet and mimed a _shh_ sign with her finger against her lips. He nodded his head once, and pointed his wand at both of their feet.

The ground shifted slightly under her, and she lifted her feet experimentally. It now felt as if she were walking on a mattress, or some kind of soft ground with a lot of give to it. _Non-verbal Cushioning Charm. Brilliant,_ she thought as she beamed back at him in approval. He also swept his wand around her head, drying the droplets of water which had been falling steadily from her soaked curls.

On their newly cushioned feet, they made their way briskly forward, and the narrow corridor widened as they went. Hermione found herself distracted on more than one occasion by the particularly convenient view she had of George's arse. She barely contained the snort of amusement with herself at her momentary lapse of teenage lust.

 _Focus, Hermione. Now is not the time!_ she silently corrected her inner randy, hormone-driven self.

They reached the end of the long tunnel and ended at an open room with large, steel, double-doors facing opposite them. The doors had a lit torch on each side, casting a dim flickering orange light upon the immediate space in front of them.

They glanced at each other nervously before casting a Human-Presence-Revealing Spell. The hologram showed there were no humans to be seen directly on the other side of the doors. Hermione lifted her wand to of the steel door handles and whispered, " _Alohomora_." The click of metal on metal indicated her spell's success, and the door was now unlocked.

A wave of apprehension washed over her as a chill crept up her spine. _This was far too easy._

George opened the door and stepped through, and she followed closely behind him, their wands still casting a faint glow from their tips. They walked slowly down what seemed to be a hallway inside the Ministry, and upon further inspection, Hermione noticed the corridor was walled with dark stones which glistened under the light from torches that were fixated infrequently along the walls. The ceiling was so high that neither their dim wand-light, nor the torch light could reach it.

They made their way about ten paces down the dim corridor before triggering an alarm. A piercing shriek rang through their ears, and the all too familiar sounds of the Caterwauling Charm alerted their enemies to their presence. Hermione fell to the floor in terror, hunching herself into a ball instinctively. The last time she had heard this sound, she had been with Harry and Ron, and memories of the battle came flooding back to her. A violent, physical shaking rippled through her as the images that haunted her manifested themselves before her eyes.

She was vaguely aware of George lifting her by the arm to her feet. The quick change of positioning caused her head to spin, and she abruptly vomited on the polished black marble at her feet.

Tears were flowing steadily down her cheeks in her shame, and she could not look him in the eye. He grabbed her hand with force and ran back towards the steel doors, and she had no choice but to follow him. The stale musty air of the underground made her stomach twist about, and she felt a cold sweat cross her face making her feel close to fainting.

Before they had even reached the narrow tunnel, she managed to yank her hand free. She plopped down on the cool gravel and attempted to center herself, searching for anything to be able to move forward without blacking out. George had promptly turned back to come up beside her. He waved his wand over her head, casting a Cooling Charm by the feel of the chill that settled itself on her skin. He next conjured a wet flannel from a torn corner of his vest and shoved it roughly into her palm.

The desperation in his eyes when she finally looked up to him was effective, and she was moved urgently into action as if she were a racehorse cracked on the hip by a riding crop. She bounded to her feet while wiping the flannel across her mouth and forehead, and, following George, she ran the remaining distance across the room to the tunnel entrance.

Just three steps before they reached the tunnel, a steel disk flew past them, nearly missing their heads and halting them in their tracks. It stretched itself over the corridor opening, sealing it shut with a glow of blue magic on its edges. Hermione heard a wailing shout of, "No," and realised it had been her who had screamed.

The whizz of a spell flew past her cheek, whistling in her ear as it went. She tossed her hand over her shoulder automatically, yelling the first thing that came to mind. " _Stupefy!_ "

They turned about-face towards the double doors from which they came, and Hermione crouched in front of George, throwing a Shield Charm in front of them. They watched in horror as several dark, hooded figures came through the steel doors, nearly blocking out the dim torch light completely. George began to toss hexes and curses and defensive spells back towards their attackers. The room was full of orange, purple, and red sparks flying through the air from both directions, but, otherwise, it was difficult to make out much. It was hard to follow where the myriad spells had come from and where they landed considering so many were rebounding off of the shield.

Most of the spells were non-verbal, and she was impressed by George's ability to jump up from behind Hermione's shield and send more light flying out without a sound. She could not recall having seen him very often in battle, and it was beautiful to watch him work. The sweat gathering on his brow and down his temples shone orange like he had been sitting by candle light, though she knew it was just the glow of the spells emitting nearly constantly from his wand. He was breathing shallowly from the effort, and the veins in his forearm rippled as he flicked his wrist about.

Fixing her eyes toward her wand hand, she willed herself to concentrate her attention on maintaining their shield. The _Protego Shield_ was a particularly complex bit of magic, and not very many wizards and witches had the ability to cast it. If she did not focus on it, she would lose it and leave both of them completely vulnerable in the dark of the strange underground room.

Grunts of effort, the scraping of feet on gravel, and the crackling of magic were most of what made up the soundtrack to the scuffle.

After a few minutes of fighting, the deafening crash of crumbling concrete falling to the ground filled the small space, and Hermione leapt up from her crouched position in surprise. A sharp clang of metal rang out right behind her ears, and she looked behind her—nearly losing the shield as she did—to see the disk which previously blocked the tunnel swiveling on its edge on the ground. She caught George's eyes in the dim light, and he winked at her. She felt a surge of pride at his cleverness in blasting the tunnel open for them by using a non-verbal Reducto.

She heard the muffled cry of someone opposite them, and realised George must have put the assailants in a Body Bind. That left two, or three more hooded figures by her count. She turned to them with renewed efforts, casting defensive spells whenever there was a break in the offensive curses zooming towards them. She lifted and replaced their shield with a disciplined focus after every attack sent.

If they could just take out these last few Death Eaters, they could make it back through the tunnel and up the steps to safety. Hermione felt the warmth of hope settling in around her as the fire of her determination wound itself through her body and out of her wand, bolstering her shield and exacting the precision of her aim. _They could do this._

The warmth was quickly stolen from her as an icy numbness settled around them in a dense fog. All spells ceased immediately, and she was launched into pitch black darkness. Though she could not physically see, she could sense the fear pulsing through the cramped space in front of her as if it wore a face and walked in the flesh.

 _Dementors._

Hermione struggled to search through her mind for anything of joy, any small memory of consequence that could be used against the force of evil that was slowly leeching the life from her and everyone else in the room.

And she had it. She latched onto the memory like a mother does her just-born child, refusing to let it go for _anything._

 _Hermione had just woken from being petrified at the end of second year. Throwing open the doors of the Great Hall, she found the mussed black hair of Harry Potter sitting at their usual spot in the middle of the long Gryffindor table. She ran towards him at full speed. "You solved it! You solved it!" she cried beaming with pride. He turned towards her, and she noticed he was wearing a striped flannel pyjama set. He got up from the table and ran towards her, emerald eyes shining with delight and a smile erupting over his features. Ron was quickly behind him, arms outstretched and a slice of bacon still hanging from his lips. Their bodies collided as arms tossed themselves around one another in a fit of laughter and relief. She burst into tears of pure joy. She was safe, once again, here in their embrace. These were the faces she had so desperately wanted to see, the faces of her first and very best friends, the faces she had dreamed of while lying petrified in the hospital wing._  
 _  
_She shouted with all determination and force, " _EXPECTO PATRONUM!"_

The silver otter erupted itself from the tip of her wand, and she watched in detached fascination as it tumbled and rolled around the dark space, casting a blinding white light every place it rested. She reveled in the sweet memories of her best friends.

 _Harry's impossibly messy hair smoothed under her hands. Ron's sheepish sideways grin glowing up at her. The two pairs of eyes—rich emerald and brilliant indigo—filled with joy and . . ._ life _. . . staring back at her._

 _Their smiles. Merlin, their smiles could bring the most evil of wizards to their knees.  
_  
The small, but mighty otter drove away the last of the soul-sucking, happiness-stealing Dementors, and she crumpled to the floor in tears, the weight of sorrow too much to bear. It was the first time she had called upon the memories of her best friends to help her, and it would not be her last. They were the happiest moments she had, and she realised, mournfully, that the only time she would ever be able to see them again would be in those recollections.

They were gone, and she was empty.

 _Spicy cayenne._

 _Sweet cinnamon._

 _Warmth._

 _Bright._

 _Light._

 _Black._

 _She abandoned herself to the very depths of the Ocean of Grief; no longer floating, just sinking. The pressure of the water pushed on her from all sides, holding her limbs captive, unable to move. She surrendered, and then there was nothing._

 _She was nothing._

When Hermione came to, she was overwhelmed by the throbbing pain seemingly splitting her skull in half. Lightning shocks sent pain to the back of her eyeballs while it felt as if the totality of her life's blood had collected in one spot underneath her forehead. It pulsed and pounded excruciatingly. _This is what death feels like.  
_  
"Actually . . ." George's soft voice rang through her mind with the force of a freight train, ". . . it's what casting a strong Patronus does. But that's just semantics."

Apparently, she had spoken that thought aloud, though she didn't feel it happen.

She groaned in agony with the effort of opening her eyelids. _Since when did a hippogriff take up residence on_ _my face?  
_  
"Eat this. It's not quite perfect, but it'll do."

She felt the crumbles of a chocolate biscuit on her lips. Her mouth felt impossibly dry. She might as well have stuffed herself with a jar full of cotton balls.

After swallowing the softened biscuits with far more effort than should have been required, she croaked, "Water."

"Ah yes. It seems you might have forgotten one very important detail in this strange bag you packed."

Her mind felt foggy, and she was not comprehending what he was talking about. _He has my bag?_ She reached her hand to her waist without opening her eyes, and the belt where the small purple beaded bag had been looped was missing. _  
_  
He continued, "We have a litre of Ogden's Finest, an empty flask, and sterilizing alcohol. Take your pick."

Her head was throbbing with a new force as each word he spoke reverberated painfully against the capillaries. At least the chocolate had begun to banish some of the fuzziness around her thoughts.

"The flask," she whispered through tight vocal cords.

"Suit yourself," he responded, puzzled but intrigued. He passed the empty flask to her open hand.

"My wand?" She felt the vine wood press against her palm. With trembling fingers she pointed it to the flask. It occurred to her that she barely had any strength, magical, or otherwise, and this spell might not work. She thought experimentally, _Aquamenti_.

The metal flask cooled instantly in her palm, and she hastily drew it to her lips. The cool water fell past them and into her parched throat with a wave of relief. She gulped without taking a breath, reveling in the ice cold water sliding endlessly across her tongue.

She breathed out wearily. "Is it—Are we—safe? Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes," he reassured her, brushing his fingers lightly over her cheek. "We are fine. And safe," he added.

"Where are we?" Her eyes were still closed, and she couldn't place any sounds save for the thumping of her heart in her skull, the headache persisting even after drinking water.

"I couldn't get into Shell Cottage, something was wrong with the wards, so I brought us to a forest outside of the Burrow. You remember the one where we took the Portkey to the World Cup? It was the first place that popped into my head."

"Mmm," she replied without really speaking. The exhaustion and pain was catching up with her again.

"You had a lot of _interesting_ stuff in that bag of yours. Planning a great escape?" he snorted in jest at her.

"I have had all of the essentials packed for weeks. With Harry and Ron . . . we never knew when we would be in trouble." She took a few deep breaths, and her tired lungs protested the exertion of sustaining speech through long sentences.

George chuckled at her and mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, "Of course you have." She reached out for his hand silently, eyes still closed against the sunlight.

"Rest now, love," he encouraged, pulling her head into his lap. He ended up twining his fingers lazily through her curls and massaging her scalp soothingly. She let herself get lost in the touch for a moment, and she drifted away into sleep where she was greeted by two friendly pairs of emerald and indigo eyes.

* * *

 **A/N:**

This chapter is dedicated to I was BOTWP who has graced us with some of our most favorite reviews. Her in depth character analyses are so spot on, and we are so grateful for the tangible evidence that the history and forethought which we put into these characters is translating onto the page. She has also unknowingly encouraged us to continue writing during a particularly difficult block, and it has made all of the difference for us. Thank you BOTWP! Please check out the sometimes silly and always full-of-heart series that she writes called, "Chocolate Frogs". You won't be disappointed!

Thank you to habababa and roni2010 for your consistent reviews and love. You always make us smile!


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Guys! You are giving our story so much love and it is really unbelievable! We have surpassed 200 follows and 80 favorites, and are soooo close to 200 reviews. We are just a couple of moms who had an idea and decided to put 'pen to paper', or 'fingers to keyboard' rather, so we are really truly humbled and blown away by the response our story is getting! Thank you so much for adventuring with us, and for sticking with Draco and Hermione on their individual journeys as well. It means so much to us.

This chapter is dedicated to a fellow Tribe Witch, Athena . the . Agonist. May all your Masquerade dreams come true. xoxo

* * *

 **CHAPTER TEN**

* * *

Draco led the still unconscious Astoria away from the pool of blood soaking into the earth and lowered her down onto a pile of fir needles at the treeline. Her face was ghostly white, and Draco rubbed away a smear of blood from her cheek. Her shirt was covered in Rowle's blood, having been in his hold when Draco cursed him and blood spurted from his gaping chest. Obviously, the lack of food mixed with the the fear of the attack was too much for the girl. Draco felt somewhat annoyed with her fragile state. How could they keep going with a girl who fainted at the sight of blood? Moments after Astoria was safely on the ground, Draco turned to see an irate Pansy in his face, eyes wild with anger and fear.

"You arsehole! You killed him?" She shoved him in the chest with force, pushing him backwards a few steps before he could get his bearings, slamming his back against the rough bark of a tree.

"Yeah, and what of it?" Draco sneered, taking the three steps back to Pansy, looking down on her with disdain. "I just saved her fucking life - all of your lives - and you're worried about a dead Death Eater?" He let out a large huff, feeling the frustration bubbling up inside him, threatening to explode. They had spent more than three weeks holed up inside a fucking barn; Blaise and Pansy had refused to allow Theo to go down to his house claiming safety reasons, and they had argued with Draco, who wanted to go flying, and kept his feet solidly on the ground for fear of getting caught. However, now Blaise had risked all of their lives with one thoughtless flight through a Muggle trafficked area in order to find them; a journey that could have easily been handled on foot.

"You didn't have to murder him, Draco!" Pansy protested. "He could have just as easily been stopped with a non-lethal -"

"Don't you fucking dare!" Draco screamed at her, causing her to step back a pace. He could not pacify Pansy, of all people, right now about his reasoning for choosing a _Sectumsempra_ instead of a _Stupefy_. He looked behind the witch to see Blaise's eyebrows raised in shock and met his gaze with one of pure loathing. Theo was standing beside Blaise, eyes cast down and transfixed on the gory mess.

"I didn't murder anyone," Draco spat out. "He would have taken Astoria however he pleased, or worse, and you fucking know it!"

Pansy hesitated, opening her mouth once to speak before Draco cut her off. "Let's clean this up, and get the fuck out of here before that coward who Disapparated comes back with reinforcements."

Draco turned back towards the unconscious Death Eaters and pulled his wand out to bind them. Theo joined him, and they secured the three stunned men together around a tree next to the lifeless form of their fallen comrade. Blaise and Pansy started to gather the remnants of their camp that she had not already collected, adding the Death Eaters broomsticks to the extendable bag.

Draco hovered over the ebony box his mother had given him which was resting undamaged among the fray. Reaching down carefully, he dusted some dirt off of the inlaid lid and removed the thin gold chain she had offered to him on the last day he saw her - nearly three weeks ago now. Slipping the chain around his neck for safekeeping, he shrank the box and added it to his trouser pocket. He felt the ring warm against his skin where it was hanging from the end of the chain. His mother's voice rang through his ears. " _Please, hurry. This ring has a Location Charm on it. I will find you."_ Draco's heart clenched painfully at the memory of his mother's sad and determined eyes sending him away. What fate awaited her once the Death Eaters returned to the Manor in the aftermath of the battle? Or when Thoros Nott was discovered having been left bound and tortured by her son's own hand? Thinking of the danger she was in because of Draco's attempts at survival was too much to bear. He stuffed all thoughts of her consequences away, refusing even now to acknowledge the reality of today's casualties. He could not be distracted like this when the whole group looked to him for the next move, the next direction. His mind needed to be clear.

Draco closed his eyes to concentrate as Rowle's pale and lifeless face floating in a pool of his own blood became the only thing he could see. He watched from behind closed lids as the image's edge caught fire and burned away - as if a picture held up to a flame - until it became a pile of ash. Focusing on the image of the burned up picture, he asked his mind to lock it away forever. Draco felt the Arctic chill of his Occlumency shields rising, and icicles crawled their way through his mind's expanse towards the pile of ash. It was encased as thousands of tiny frozen crystals surrounded it, creating a solid block of ice. His mind moved the block into its dark depths, to be lost among thousands of other blocks, never to be seen again. He would be numb to this man's death as long as he could maintain the Occlumency shields and the cold composure which came quite naturally to him. It was not a perfect magic, but Draco relied upon it now in order to focus his mind and drive their group forward toward shelter and food.

Their camp was a disaster of scattered objects, many of them broken by a blasting curse earlier. His eyes lingered on the shattered phials of his potions kit as their contents seeped into the rocky soil. _What a fucking waste,_ he groaned internally, and the ache of need wound itself tighter around his gut. He bit his lip hard between his teeth to prevent himself from crying out in anger, or frustration. Occlumency certainly helped keep the images from his mind, but the potions took the edge off and calmed him in a way he had not yet found an equal.

Astoria began to stir, and Draco knelt down to help her up while he spoke. "We need to get out of here. Can you walk?"

She shook her head "yes", but her cheeks shone with fresh tears, and Draco was a bit suspicious of her. He helped Astoria stand from the ground, and she gazed up at him, blinking vacantly, her expression a touch confused but mostly blank. She stood to her feet steadily enough, so Draco turned back to the others and cleared his throat. "Ok, let's get down this wretched hill and head to Ludlow."

"Draco," Blaise started exasperatedly, "that is a Muggle town. We can't go there. Let's just Apparate somewhere."

Draco rolled his eyes before replying. "Look, dickhead, we don't have anywhere to go right now. They know all the places we would go to, and as you just witnessed, they are hunting for us. I doubt Death Eaters would look for us in a bloody Muggle town... Probably won't even expect us to still be this fucking close. We're tired, hungry, and Astoria needs to rest her ankle. Just shut up, grab your fuck buddy's hand, and lets get the fuck out of these trees."

The group made their way down the sunken paths eroded into the hills from centuries of running water, and Draco groaned at the burn in his thighs which strained from the effort at keeping a slow pace. He wanted to run down the hill quickly, but he knew that the the girls would not be able to keep up. He felt the familiar weight of someone's intent gaze watching him, and he glanced over to Astoria to find the girl's eyes widen slightly before snapping immediately forward. _Well, what the fuck was she staring at?_ It did not settle well with Draco to be the subject of anyone's scrutiny, and he eased up on his stride to let the girl get a few paces ahead of him on the trail.

When Astoria stumbled unsteadily on the uneven slopes of the forest floor, Draco and Theo automatically advanced hurriedly forward to catch her. She accepted Draco's outstretched hand, and linked her elbow in his before giving Theo an apologetic shrug. Content to not leave Draco's side, the duo carefully traversed the sloping ravines. Astoria had taken to regarding him openly now, and each time he peered down at her, she looked back up to him with wide, pondering eyes. It made him wholly uncomfortable, and Draco avoided meeting her gaze as often as he could, though it was difficult given their proximity being hand in hand for the remainder of the hike.

From behind him, Theo broke the silence. "Remind me again why we aren't just Apparating?"

"Because this dickwad -" Draco replied, nodding towards Blaise, who was whispering to Pansy a few paces ahead of them, "-thought it would be a brilliant idea to go flying outside the fucking wards. Now, Death Eaters have been alerted to our presence. Plus, we can't just Apparate into a Muggle town. We would be spotted faster than you can say _fucking Azkaban_."

Theo sighed in displeasure, shifting the bag on his shoulder. "Well, next time we have to run for our lives, I vote Blaise stays behind to fend for himself."

Draco snorted, holding back laughter. It wasn't really a laughing matter, but his ire with his friend was still burning quite strongly, and he was grateful Theo was irritated too. "Maybe if the wanker took his head out of Pansy's arse every once in awhile he would have realized he was being an idiot."

Theo snickered out loud that time. "You're a fucking git, you know that, Malfoy?"

"Not just any _fucking_ git," he responded, preening slightly. "Or did you not notice that they engraved Head Git on my prefect badge?"

Theo nearly fell over, tripping on an overgrown root, for the uncontrollable laughter he had at Draco's response. Draco laughed a little too, but could feel the lightness of the moment slowly dissipating as he remembered the reason they were leaving camp at all. The beast of need clawed at his insides, and Draco did his best to ignore the craving, but it was overwhelming and ever present in his thoughts. " _Find safety"_ was screaming just as loudly as " _find potions,"_ and the churning in his stomach and shaking of his hands was just as much from lack of food as it was from lack of drink.

As they walked through the thickest part of the tree-lined path, the daylight sunk lower and lower into the horizon, shadowing the trail in an eery dimness which reflected his mood. Draco had no desire to stay in this hillside any longer than he would be required to, mostly for fear of re-detection once Rowle and the others did not return to the base with them in hand, but also because he was exhausted and really needed a drink - or four.

"Pansy, take a left at this fork coming up," Draco called. "Ludlow is at the end of this trail."

"Whatever you say, boss," she sneered without looking back to him. Apparently she was still put out since their argument when she all but called him a murderer, but Draco didn't care. War was messy, and he did exactly what he had to do. It's what he'd been doing for years now; playing his part, staying smart, surviving. _We are all just surviving._

The trail widened at the base of the slope, and the group was met with the delightful sight of civilization. A paved street was a few hundred yards off, and they could see light pouring from the windows of the buildings, illuminating the surrounding trees in an orange glow. Most distinctly, they could smell meat as it cooked at a nearby establishment. How long had it been since they had had more than fruit and bread from the Nott kitchens? Draco's mouth salivated at the thought of a hot meal, and a new lightness introduced itself into his movements, even with Astoria hanging on to him.

Blaise finally addressed Draco after more than an hour of silence during their hike down through the forest. "Did you say you had money in that bag of yours, Draco?"

"Piss off, wanker. You don't get to fucking talk to me."

"What the fuck did I do?" Blaise questioned. "You're the one going around hacking Death Eaters to bits!"

Draco dropped Astoria's hand and was on Blaise before the man could register what had happened, wand trained between Blaise's eyes. Draco fumed as he spoke through gritted teeth, "We would not even be discussing this if you hadn't left the wards on that fucking broomstick, _Zabini,"_ he sneered as he said the name, animosity dripping with each syllable.

It was Theo who touched Draco's arm, snapping him from his angered state.

"Mate," Theo said gently, "let's just get some food."

He knew - _Draco fucking knew_ \- that starting a duel in the middle of the streets, in plain sight of Muggles no less, was beyond reckless, but the blood thumping in his ears, and his heart beating erratically against his ribs demanded justice, retribution... _anything_ to silence his rage.

He tossed his arm to shake Theo's grip from it and brushed past Blaise, making a point to thrust his shoulder into the other man's as he did. There was no way an infraction this serious could be ignored, or forgiven, but the overwhelming need for food and potions drove Draco to drop it - for now.

The pub was crowded when they finally made their way through the narrow wooden door. The weary group slid up to a table along the back wall, near to the newly lit fire, and a collective deep breath emanated from them as they took in the smells of wood smoke, beef stew, and pipe tobacco.

The memories evoked from the distinctive smells reminded Draco of long chats by the fire in stuffed leather armchairs of his father's study. Mostly, these discussions rallied around Lucius's disappointment with his son and the reiteration of his expectations for Draco's role in the family. However, since Lucius had been imprisoned, Draco had used the study for his own purposes; to escape the insane resident of their home who called himself Lord Voldemort. In the overly large, cold Manor where torture and fear ran rampant, the study was a place of contentment where Draco could throw back a few potions and let the feeling of void nothingness wash over him while he was warmed from the outside in by the dancing flames of a fire.

This countryside pub was more than Draco could have asked for in a safe-haven for the evening. His throat was already parched in anticipation of the strong whiskey he planned to dump down it in large quantities.

He looked around anxiously for the waiter, resolutely avoiding eye contact with anyone who accompanied him at his table. They all sat in near perfect silence, not making eye contact with one another. Theo was picking at his fingernails, brooding as usual, and Astoria was making those damn doe eyes at him every time he caught her glance. The other two were bloody wankers and would be hexed on sight, so it was better if he did not look at them right now. No, he needed some food and a strong drink, and then he would feel better.

It had been several long minutes of awkward fidgeting and trying to catch the eye of any one employee of the pub before Draco sighed with a huff and stood to get someone's attention.

"Where are you going?" Pansy questioned.

"To get us all some food, obviously."

Draco strutted forward towards the bar and approached the barman with an air of annoyed authority. Clearing his throat, he stated, "We have been waiting for a waiter to take our orders for over ten minutes now."

The barman lifted his eyebrows with a smirk. "I been wonderin' if you lubbers were jus' keepin' the seats warm. Want some fish an' chips?"

Draco glared incredulously at the man, who seemed to expect them to eat common street food. Even in Diagon Alley, he made reservations for a proper meal.

"Er, no. We would like to have a meat dish. Do you have a beef wellington?"

"We 'ave some beef stew if it'll please you, sir," the barman responded sarcastically.

"Right. Five of those… and some… beers?"

"Draft alright?" the barman asked, and Draco grunted in agreement, not quite sure what it was he had agreed to.

The man collected several dimpled pint glasses and filled them with amber liquid from the tap. Without looking up from his task, he asked, "You gonna be openin' a tab, or payin' now?"

Draco shifted uncomfortably, realizing he did not have Muggle money to cover this. "A tab, please." On second thought he added, "Also, five whiskeys."

When he returned to the table, the four were talking quietly amongst themselves.

"- we go back to set up camp we run the risk -"

Blaise cut off Pansy as he noticed Draco only holding two glasses, one a pint and the other a snifter. "I hope you're sharing!"

"I hope you're fucking getting up off of your lazy arse to get your own." Draco was still furious with him, and had no patience for his attitude. Blaise and Pansy both rose from their chairs with a huff, the latter throwing a sideways glance in Draco's direction before taking Blaise's arm and heading towards the bar. Theo also got up, telling Astoria he would get hers too.

Draco tipped the snifter of whiskey back and took a nice, long gulp. Immediately, the warmth spread from his mouth and down to his belly where it settled happily.

"Nice to see you smiling for once," Astoria drawled from across the table.

"Yeah, well, a warm drink never hurt anyone," Draco responded, keeping the witch's eyes. She had been giving him that same bright eyed look all day; as if he had hung the bloody moon in the sky. He supposed he had saved her life, and the witch was probably grateful. Maybe she even saw Draco in a new, more favorable light now. Or, perhaps, she suffered some kind of trauma in her anxious state and forgot she actually hated him. Whichever, Draco didn't have half a mind to discourage her now that the strong whiskey was doing the thinking for him.

He slid the tankard of beer across the table to her, and she dipped her nose down to smell the deep gold draught. "It is not quite champagne at Christmas, is it?"

Draco let out a deep chuckle at her naivete. "No, this is not the poncey stuff your mother has served you at her parties. This is beer. Flat, warm, and full of hops." She grimaced at his explanation. "You'll love it," he encouraged.

She took a tentative sip, scarcely raising the pint from the table, and sat up a bit straighter as she tested the taste in her mouth. "It's not nearly as enjoyable as wine, but it's tolerable." She flashed him a smile which he returned easily.

Eventually the three returned to the table, and they sipped their beer and whiskey until a curly haired barmaid brought over their stew and potatoes. The group ate in silence. Only the occasional groan of satisfaction, or sigh of contentment could be heard from them as they devoured the first hot meal they had had in weeks. Each time he looked up across the table, he caught Astoria's eyes looking out at him below her lashes. She turned away coyly, returning to her half finished pint, but Draco could not mistake the flush on her cheeks, unsure if it was from the beer, or from being caught watching him.

Draco was oddly intrigued by the witch. She was two years younger than everyone else, but she held her herself as if she had been apart of their group from the beginning. Growing up, she had always been the annoying younger sister of his friend, Daphne, but in the last few weeks of basically living together, Draco had seen less of the bothersome child and more of the self-confident, young woman who had slapped him.

Several more rounds of beers were acquired from the bar, and eventually Astoria stopped averting her eyes when he looked at her. He could swear he saw a challenge there behind her bright blue eyes and was more than interested in finding out what exactly it was she was challenging him to.

Theo's brooding had progressed with each new drink, and at this point, he had his chair turned to face the fire almost completely away from them, swirling a whiskey absentmindedly in his hands while he stared blankly, his eyes expressionless and lingering on an inconsequential log in the fire as if he were looking at something else entirely.

Pansy and Blaise had ignored Draco most of the time in favor of flirting with one another. Honestly, the display they put on in front of the crowded pub was a little more than unnecessary, snogging and rutting on the leather chair in front of the fire as if they were fifth years in a darkened corridor. Draco was happy to drink in silence if it meant he did not have to talk to those two fuckers. He was still unbelievably furious with Blaise for being stupid enough to get them detected and, of course, with Pansy for her misplaced anger with him. He was not unused to being on the wrong end of the witch's wrath over the years, but this time she took it too far. He didn't bloody kill the man for the fun of it, and she fucking knew it.

Shaking off the grim thoughts, Draco took another swig of his fourth - or was it the fifth? - whiskey for the night. The heat of the spirits burned his throat and banished all of his wayward thoughts, clearing his mind and warming him thoroughly.

"What does it taste like?" Astoria asked, grabbing her untouched snifter of whiskey and tipping it towards her nose to investigate the smell.

Draco threw back the remnants of his own whiskey and slid into the empty chair beside Astoria. "You have to drink it," he explained. "It is an experience all in itself."

She glanced at him sideways - suspicious but not mistrustful. Turning in her chair to face him completely, her leg brushed up against his, and she placed her free hand on his thigh. Draco briefly glanced down at her hand where it rested on his leg and back up to the girl, who was now staring at him intensely. Keeping constant eye contact, she took a long sip of the drink before her eyes shut tight in shock as the drink burned its way down. She sputtered a little bit and shook off the harsh sting of the spirits, laughing a little as she recovered.

Draco could not tear his eyes from her. Her pale skin was flushed to the roots of her blonde hair, and her lips glistened with a drop of whiskey which he wanted more than anything to lick off. Her attentions all night had left him unbearably needy, and the hand on the top his thigh - which was now tracing inattentive circles through his trousers - burned more than the whiskey ever did.

"And?" he inquired, eyes searching her face.

She laughed heartily now. "It's like smoke and fire all at once," she responded silkily.

He watched as she licked the drop of whiskey off of her lips, and his gaze flicked back up to where her eyes were boring into him with that same challenge behind them that he had seen earlier.

Draco moved to put his arm around the back of her chair, and Theo's voice interrupted them, "Alright fuckers, I am about to pass the fuck out. I got us a few rooms upstairs." He tossed Astoria a key while he swung the other over his finger.

Draco glanced over to the leather chair which Blaise and Pansy had previously occupied, noticing they had left already.

Theo said, "Draco, you're with me, and Astoria is on her own, unless Pansy resurfaces."

Draco nodded wordlessly in confirmation at his friend, and Theo turned to the stairs, stumbling a bit unsteadily before he disappeared.

With the spell momentarily broken, Draco turned back to his pint to drain its contents, rising when it was empty to order another drink at the bar.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked Astoria, who had leaned back in her chair and was swirling her finger over the rim of her glass.

She looked up at him with that same, intense gaze. "I think you know exactly what I want from you."

Draco felt his cock twitch against his unbelievably tight trousers. _Fuck._ The amount of alcohol he had consumed over the course of the night was severely inhibiting any rational thought from reaching his brain. All he could see, now, were her nipples straining against her shirt, and the insistent gaze in those blue eyes that stared at him without fear.  
 _  
_As if having read his mind about needing another drink, the barmaid came over and set two pints down on the table before collecting the empty glasses on a tray. "Last rounds was ten minutes ago," she said. "You two will have to take your pints up." She gave a knowing smirk to Draco before turning away with the full tray.

He looked at Astoria, who had gotten up from her chair. She was standing exceptionally close to him, her fingers having returned to tracing patterns on his thigh - dangerously near to the erection he knew was prominent now.

Taking a long gulp of the fresh beer, he set the drink on the table. "After you..."

* * *

"I wish we had Hangover Potion," Theo moaned, picking at his baked beans with the corner of his toast. "I can't remember the last time I got this pissed without one."

"I would settle for any potion right now," Draco grumbled into his coffee.

Pansy cut in. "Maybe it is better for you that the potions kit got smashed by that _Reducto_ , Draco."

"Fuck off, Pansy," Draco said bitterly.

"I did plenty of that last night. Thank you for your concern though," she rebutted.

Draco sneered at her, the memories of his own eventful night playing back across his mind.

 _His hands on her skin, her lips on him. Her crying his name in the dark of the midnight black room._

She had not been completely inexperienced, as demonstrated by that beautiful fucking mouth of hers, but Astoria was bloody tight, and it wouldn't have surprised him if she had been a virgin before they crashed into that room together.

Draco had woken that morning with the weight and warmth of her leg draped across his hips and silently cursed himself for being so stupid as to fall in bed with a Greengrass. Surely their coupling would not come without attachments, especially if he was the first to properly bed her. Where the whiskey had screamed 'convenient one-off', her father will surely insist 'spring engagement.'

 _He slid cautiously out from underneath her, careful to leave her as undisturbed as possible, hoping she would continue to sleep while he made his getaway. The chill of the ensuite tiles bit at his feet where he stood, palms braced on the sink's edge. It was a stark contrast to the overwhelming heat spreading itself across his face and neck. Each time his eyes opened, the room tilted precariously around him, and he gripped the porcelain harder for stability._

 _The reflection in the mirror was one not unfamiliar to him. He hated that man; loathed him for everything Draco couldn't quite stomach but somehow found the strength to do. If he were honest with himself - which he rarely was - he was just a boy playing dress up in his father's suits. He certainly didn't feel like he belonged among the men, yet he found the man in the mirror patterning himself after them. Taking drinks and women for his pleasure, engaging in torture... and now killing._

Killing _... He had killed that man. The man whose face he swore to forget, and yet, the blurred image transposed itself over his own face's reflection until all he could see were Rowle's pale blue eyes, void of life, and the light blond hair - not unlike his own - encircled in a bloody halo. Draco averted his eyes quickly away from the mirror and the haunting image within it to stare at the white basin, but his gaze caught on the harsh black lines that branded the pale skin of his left forearm. Of course, this was his future. Rowle's face was his face, and Rowle's fate was his fate. The man who died at Draco's hands was a premonition, a warning. Death would come for him as swiftly and unannounced as he had Rowle._

The inky lines of his Dark Mark begun to blur and wobble, and Draco realised at that moment he was shaking. He brought a hand up to his cheek and it came away wet. The tears were unstoppable now as he gasped for breath and violent chills shook his body. He was panicking, but he couldn't stop. He slid down the wall behind him, and his nails dug into his forearm, attempting to claw away the stain on his life, the promise of his demise. There was no way out of this hole he had dug for himself, for his family, for his family's fucking sake. He was just a good son who had a lot to prove, and now he would pay for everything he did to sate the whims of an evil dictator-madman.

He didn't know how long he had stretched out prone with his hot cheek pressed against the cool tiles, but it was the rustling of the comforter that brought him back to himself.

Shit! Fucking shit bugger! _He scrambled off of the floor, hastily Disillusioning himself, and slipped out of the bathroom and through the room where Astoria was stirring awake._

Once in the corridor, he paused against the wall, collecting his thoughts back like chicks gathered into the hen's fold. He pulled every memory, every fear, every feeling and sent them quietly behind his mind's wall of ice. With a deep breath of renewed composure he jutted his chin high and walked down the stairs for breakfast.

And now, he found himself next to Astoria at the breakfast table, who was acting quite unaware of his bathroom breakdown which had happened just feet from her. He glanced at the girl and studied her as she sliced into her black pudding, looking remarkably poised compared to the rest of them. Draco realised she had not been near as sloshed as the others, so it made sense that she would not be feeling the same horrid aftereffects that a night of heavy drinking induced.

 _Could she have been mostly sober last night? Last night when she was coming onto me like a veela on her chosen target?_ The thoughts flicked across his mind so quickly, and he barely had time to dwell on potential answers before Astoria was leaning towards him and reaching out to brush ketchup from the corner of his mouth. She sucked it off of her thumb before flashing him a bright smile. _Well, fuck. That answers that._

The barman approached Draco and said, "That'll be 187 pounds fer the rooms an' the drinks, unless yer' splittin' the tab."

"Salazar! Draco, how are we going to pay for it?" Blaise hissed across the table to him.

Draco reached into his bag and pulled out a pile of gold coins that he assumed would be a comparable amount and set them down on the table in front of the man.

The barman looked down at the gold and up at Draco and laughed heartily. "You mus' be bloody fuckin' daft if you think this'll cover -"

The curly haired barmaid from the night before, who had been clearing tables nearby, slid into the seat beside Theo and spoke quickly, interrupting the barman's protests. "Howard, I have these blokes covered." She snaked her arm around Theo's shoulders and patted his chest gently with her other hand while she spoke. Draco barely held in the laughter at the look of shock on Theo's face.

"These're mates o' yours, Mary?" he asked skeptically.

"Oh, yes. Best mates." She turned and grabbed Theo's face in her hands before kissing him full on the mouth. He lifted his hands in surprise before settling them on her back and relaxing into the kiss a bit.

Draco looked back to the barman, who rolled his eyes and muttered, "Don' make it a regular thing."

When he was finally out of earshot, the entire table erupted in laughter. Theo broke away from the girl and balked, cheeks flaming red and eyes wide in surprise.

She leaned into the table and whispered, "I have someplace safe. Come with me."

The group exchanged wary looks and shrugged shoulders before hesitantly standing from their table to follow the girl. Draco made sure to grab the pile of coins before he did and glanced sideways to Theo, whose hand was now intertwined with the stranger's, a look of complete bewilderment permanently etched across his olive features. She waved to the barman on their way out. "Taking my break, Howard!"

Before they knew it, they were out of the pub and in the street, following an apparently amorous stranger, who had just saved them a load of explanations and embarrassment.

When they made it to the tree line, Theo yanked back his hand and turned on the girl. "What the actual fuck was that in there?"

She smiled at him kindly and said, "It's not a fuss. My parents own half of this village anyways. He knows I am good for it."

"That is _not_ what I was talking about!" Theo yelled.

"Oh, that? That kiss was nothing," she said, waving off his concern. "I overheard you guys talking last night. You're obviously having a rough go."

"What are you going on about?" Draco asked her, nervous about the motivations of this strange girl.

She dropped her head, voice at a whisper, "I know you aren't from around here, and I just wanted... to help fellow… wizards."

At the girl's words, Draco palmed his wand and stepped a bit closer to her. He saw the collective looks of shock and uncertainty across the other's faces out of the corner of his eye.

"Fellow what?" he asked, a note of threat in his voice.

The girl seemed to look genuinely apologetic. "Listen, it's not safe out here. Please, I will explain. My house is just a few kilometers away," she pleaded, gesturing beyond the village towards the countryside.

"We aren't fucking going anywhere with you." Draco continued to stare the woman down.

"Draco, please, just -"

"How _the fuck_ do you know who I am?"

She rolled her eyes, completely unintimidated by Draco's anger. She very calmly said, "Oh, please. As if you lot weren't loud enough that anyone could have overheard you last night? You really are shite at being inconspicuous."

Theo stepped forward again, having regained a sense of logic after the shock of the strange girl's kiss. "I think you just need to explain yourself now, before something serious happens."

She sighed deeply, and with another roll of her eyes answered him. "My name is Marietta Edgecombe. I attended Hogwarts one year above you twats, and I happen to know that people are looking for you, and you don't want to be found. I can offer -"

Draco interrupted her. "You went to Hogwarts?"

"Yes. If you'll remember, Hermione Granger jinxed me with a rather nasty pimple jinx after I helped expose their dueling club."

"Ugh, Granger," Draco spat with a sneer.

"Yes, well," Marietta agreed, "I am not quite fond of her either. I still have scars from that one." She raised a hand to rub idly at her forehead underneath her fringe as she spoke.

Pansy finally spoke above everyone, eyeing the girl warily. "So, you're saying you remember us from Hogwarts, and you paid for our rooms and drinks because you want to help us?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"Yes!" A chorus resounded from everyone.

"Look, I have been working in this pub since I was pulled from school. I do not have many friends, and my family has plenty of money..." She trailed off as she looked at all of them. Her eyes finally landed on Draco. "You are clearly the one who decides these things for this group here, but I would not have offered my help if I did not know you were in danger. They _are_ looking for _you_."

Draco hissed a sharp intake of breath at the bluntness of her statement. He felt the familiar acidic bile of fear pool in his belly at her words. He did not know how, or why this witch knew these things, but he was not willing to risk being caught. The fate that awaited him was worse than he could imagine if he were to go back a traitor, a coward who ran.

He dropped his head and stared at the ground for a while, running a million scenarios through his mind and attempting to work through the haze of the hangover.

 _She could be a Death Eater; her family could sympathise. This could be a trap. This was probably, most certainly, a fucking shitwad of a trap. But we need shelter, and she seems to be able to get information. And if she is being genuine then she will want something in return, and who the fuck knows what angle she is playing at for that one. But if she has someplace safe like she says, then we would be able to collect ourselves; brew more potions, prepare to leave properly..._

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he felt Theo's strong hand over top of his shoulder. "Mate, I think she is telling the truth," his friend encouraged. "We should go with her."

"Fuck." He nodded, turning to follow the witch.

* * *

 **~ Thanks to zoesheppard for all of the reviews and love each chapter! And to rebelsaurus29 who we met through tumblr, and shows us love each chapter ~**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** A big thank you to our faithful readers who have waited so patiently for this chapter. Updates have been more sporadic for us than we would have liked, and this chapter in particular gave us quite the fight to get out of our brains and onto paper. Thank you so much for sticking with us while we seek to find the balance of real life responsibilities, mothering, jobs, and our lifeline of fan fiction. We love and are dedicated to this story, and your support means the world to us.

This chapter is dedicated to Meg ( **goldensnitch18** ) who has pushed us to continue writing. Your steadfast encouragement has been a beacon of light in an otherwise dark, dialogue-less, and plotless tunnel, and we love you lots and lots. Her recently completed Dramione "Starting Over" is a must read. We are also LOVING her 8th year Dramione WIP, "Reformed". Please give her stories a look and leave her some love on our behalf while you are over there.

We are, also, so incredibly honored to announce that **PhoenixTwins** has been awarded second place in the Shrieking Shack Society's Marauder Medals for Best Up and Coming Author. Thank you to those readers who nominated and voted for us! We are completely humbled and shocked.

Please welcome I was BOTWP to the "Out of the Flames" team as an alpha reader. She has tirelessly read and reread this chapter for us and given us wonderful feedback! Thank you for pushing us to be better!

Finally, we would love for you to follow our drabble & one shot collection titled " _Phoenix Tears_ ". We will be uploading mostly fluff and smut there when we need a break from the heartbreak of OotF! We have a new Charmione fluffy one shot up there if you want to check it out!

And, finally, on to the story!

* * *

 **CHAPTER ELEVEN**

* * *

"They _are_ looking for _you_ ," she had said. The words rang through his subconscious over and over, and Draco analyzed them obsessively. She was so sure, placing the emphasis and inflection on the 'are' and 'you' as if it were fact and not speculation. Draco knew the Death Eaters were aware of his absence; the altercation at the top of the mountain was evidence of as much, but for his status to have reached a small village and the ears of a girl who, by the looks of it, was not immersed in Wizarding society, complicated their situation immensely…It scared the fuck out of him. Feelings of unease and fear swirled from him like smoke from a fire, clouding his mind and strangling his lungs. Deep breaths were impossible, and his throat felt inconceivably dry as he tried and failed to breathe through his nose and slow his heart rate. If it were not for the curly haired blonde taking steady steps in front of him, Draco would probably not be able to keep walking forward. He had so many questions which needed answers, and every leaden placement of his foot in front of the other filled him with dread at the possibilities of what those answers might be. He wanted to sink into the hot cobblestone street, warmed under the midday sun, and never reemerge again. He wanted to disappear and never have to face the reality of whatever hell awaited him, a traitor of the Dark Lord.

Marietta climbed a small hill and disappeared over the other side while they followed silently behind her. As he reached the crest of the hill, a two-story Portland stone home, surrounded by lush floral gardens and tall hedges, came into view. The gravel crunched under Draco's boots, and the smell of recently tilled earth wafted past him on the gentle breeze. It was not like his home, a manor, but it was an elegant house on a well kept property that he could tell was occupied by someone with money.

The witch guided them around the perimeter and behind the main house to a smaller building which was hidden unassumingly from view by dense foliage and trees. Draco studied the girl carefully as she pulled out her wand and unlocked the door with a twist of her wrist and a muttered spell. She did not pocket her wand, and Draco watched her hand intently as he followed her inside, his fingers gripping his own wand in his trouser pocket.

Once inside, Marietta busied herself immediately, using her wand to lift the window sashes and vanish the thin layer of dust that clung to the surfaces. The sitting room, which they had entered into, was open to the kitchen, and a few closed doors to the left indicated additional rooms. It was a quaint house, but it held the stale odor of not having been occupied for awhile. The summer breeze flowed through the open windows, leaving the butter yellow drapes to flutter around. The fresh air carried with it assurances of comfort and a new start, but the panic that rolled in his belly would not let him trust it. As lovely and inviting as this little cottage was, this could not be home to them, and they could not plan on staying here.

She spoke as she worked to clear the cobwebs and banish the dust. "This is our guest house. My parents don't ever come up here, and we aren't expecting any visitors. It has two bedrooms through there," she indicated the doors Draco had taken immediate notice of, "and the sofa is comfortable enough to sleep on for a night or two."

"And we can stay here?" Pansy asked incredulously.

"Of course," Marietta replied hastily. "It is not in use, and you are obviously in need. I can't imagine pub hopping is wise with the state of things."

Draco's heart sank into his gut, and he croaked out, "The state of things?"

"Yes, there's plenty to catch you up on. I am going to pop over to the house and get some tea and bedclothes." Draco didn't have the chance to stop her before she made her hasty retreat outside.

Now that he was standing still, the pounding behind his eyes became more prominent, and he felt the full effects of last night's drinking. The others wandered their way through the house while he strode to the tiny kitchen, taking the opportunity to rummage through the cabinets in search of anything he could use as ingredients to refill his potion kit.

"Looking for something in particular, Draco?"

Rolling his eyes, he turned to face Pansy and felt a wave of dizziness at the quick movement. He sneered at her as he leaned on the wall for support; hopefully looking intimidating instead of infirm. Her lips were pursed in a thin line, and the air of smug confidence she usually carried with her had been replaced by the look of annoyance she often reserved just for him.

"You know exactly what I'm looking for," he spat. "I have a hangover from hell, and I need something for this headache."

"I'm sure _that's_ what's wrong," she responded, crossing her arms over her chest.

"What the fuck is your problem, Pansy?"

"You. You're my fucking problem, Draco," she said, landing a pointed finger in the center of his chest. "You're always fucking stuff up for me."

"So sorry to inconvenience you, your highness. I will do my best to stay out of your way in the future."

She scoffed her disapproval at his sarcasm. "You know that's not what this is about."

He turned away from her to continue his search in the cabinet below the sink."Spit it out, Pans. I don't have patience for this."

"You need to stop the potions, Draco!" she cried. He froze in a crouched position in front of the open cabinet, and an oppressive silence settled in the air between them. The accusation stung, and he struggled through the throbbing in his head to find a rebuttal to counter it.

She bent low to look at him after a few moments, her green eyes flashing with resentment. "I have watched you waste away for too long on these potions. Enough is enough. They are fucking you up, and I am not going to bury you because of them."

"I am not fucked up, Pansy." He stood to walk away from her, but she followed him - of course - the bitch.

Nearly laughing, she informed him, "You can't even stand straight right now, and you're shaking like a terrified bowtruckle." As if he didn't know. He desperately wanted to lay down and get off of his unstable feet. The cabinets were a bust; nothing was here. Tonight was going to be fucking miserable. He looked to the bedroom door, cracked half open, and wondered what was taking the others so long. They were probably eavesdropping like the pack of Slytherins they are.

She snapped her fingers in front of his eyes, and he scowled at her. "Pay fucking attention. I am done with this, Draco. You need to stop."

"I can stop anytime I want. Quit harping on me."

"Prove it!" Pansy sneered at him. The witch was poised for a challenge which Draco had no energy to fight.

They stared at one another, her olive eyes brightened by the silver reflecting from his own, and he considered the battle happening between his mind and his body. He knew she was right. He knew, in his mind, that he needed to stop. But it was the tremors which rattled him that came far too often, and the urge to vomit which rolled around violently in his churning stomach. But, mostly, it was the vivid and frightening nightmares - the memories really - which plagued him mercilessly and caused him to take whatever measure necessary to subdue them.

The tense moment the two shared was brief as the door opened, and Marietta entered, carrying a basket on her arm. Draco broke his gaze away from Pansy to meet Marietta's eyes. She looked from him to Pansy, seemingly surveying the scene she had just interjected.

"Would it be better if I came back later?" she asked Draco, choosing to avoid the menacing Pansy who continued to stare him down.

Draco closed his eyes tight, and took a deep breath, willing the urge to flee the situation aside.

"No, it's fine," he ground out. "You mentioned tea and answers?"

Marietta set the basket on the counter, removing a tin of loose PG Tips, a canister of sugar, and biscuits. "I'll get the water going for us while you catch up on the events from the past few weeks," she said handing him a stack of newspapers.

Draco looked down and inhaled sharply. His fingers curled tightly over the _Daily Prophet_ sitting on top of the stack. His own face looked back at him from the front page, perfect lip curl and all. The paper was ripped from his hands before he was able to read the headline. Pansy stood next to Draco, the annoyance from moments ago dissipated, and a her jaw gaped open in shock as she met his eyes.

"Like I said," Marietta muttered, "they're after you."

"Fucking hell, mate." Draco tore his gaze from the _Prophet_ to glance up at Theo who had reentered the room at some point and was joined by Blaise and Astoria.

Slowly, the papers were passed around the room as each person settled on various chairs and couches to read about their world and the dramatic changes that had taken place in just a few weeks. A heavy silence surrounded them, the weight of their changed reality pressing upon them. The suppressed gasps and rustling of turned pages were the only discernible noises in the small room for quite some time while they all tried to process the words before them.

Blaise was the first to speak. "Says here the Death Eaters have taken over control of the Ministry. The Floo Network has been shut down, and the employees have been kept there for weeks it seems."

Draco confirmed, "Those plans have been in the works for years. Though, I'm surprised it was pulled off after every thing."

"Why would they keep the employees there? They can't go home to their families?" Astoria asked with real concern in her voice.

"Most would find a way to flee or join the resistance." He sniffed as if it were obvious. "The Dark Lord placed many loyalists at the top of the ranks, but the lower level people are needed to make the whole thing function. And _he_ can't control them if they aren't in the country," Draco explained. He was not often involved in the inner circle meetings since he was at school, but he was privy to more than the average follower due to his family's position and his father's bragging tongue.

" _He_ can't control them because _he_ is dead," Theo pointed out, quite obviously.

"Right, and I am sure it just ends there," Draco snapped back. "Obviously, someone has continued with the Dark Lord's plans."

"What were his plans?" Pansy asked with an uncharacteristic tentativeness in her voice.

Draco responded simply, "A pure society. His ultimate goal was to eliminate all of the blood-traitors and Mudbloods." A shiver made its way down his spine, and he closed his eyes as an onslaught of memories broke their way through his Occlumency shields.

 _Draco had learned to dance in his mother's ballroom. He had traveled its circuit with long, graceful sweeps of his legs and feet placed assuredly in time to the music, to steps he had long memorized. That day, he had fumbled his way through a very different dance. His footing felt less secure here, and the steps much hazier. But there was no choreography for the dance of survival, and he navigated it as best he could. Granger was lying on the marble floor of the ballroom, covered in her own urine and vomit as she trembled with the aftershocks of Bellatrix's Cruciatus. She was a casualty of his survival, a trade for his safety. He watched her face contort with a grimace of pain as another wave of tremors shook her. An odd pang of sympathy rang through him; he had been on the receiving end of those curses from Bella's wand, and they were backed with the unrestrained force of an unhinged savage. As he turned away, his gaze rested on the pale expanse of her left forearm;_ Mudblood _. He rubbed absentmindedly at his own scar. They were the same, branded with their shame._

The word 'Mudblood' felt coarse on his tongue now, and his stomach turned with unease.

"Draco," Astoria called, and he looked up to see everyone watching him, confusion on their faces. "Where did you go?"

He ignored the question, instead, walking briskly to the toilet where he promptly vomited behind a closed and Silenced door. After splashing his face with cold water and collecting himself for a moment, he returned to the sitting room. Marietta had apparently been answering another question.

"...a nasty group. They are terrorizing Muggleborns. Many of You-Know-Who's followers are suspected to be behind it."

"Who is this?" Draco cut in smoothly as if he had not just lost his breakfast in the loo.

"The Knights of Walpurgis." Marietta's face was drawn into a sad sort of frown. He hadn't noticed before, but her eyes were dark as if she had not slept for several days in a row. "There has not been a named leader yet, but they are making a big show in proving that they are worse than what we had before."

"How do you know who they are?" Astoria pressed.

"By their sign. It's the same as the Death Eaters' except a sword comes out of the skull along with the snake."

"Not very creative," Theo scoffed.

"Probably low on propaganda funds," Blaise snickered, and Pansy smacked him in the arm with a warning glare.

"No, not quite," Marietta agreed. "But what they lack in creativity, they make up for with sheer brutality. They have been running a revel for the last two weeks, and anyone of _unsavory_ birth or association who comes into their path is strung up and bled to death."

"Sounds like a pleasant party," Draco muttered under his breath. He lost track of the conversation after that, his mind distracted and his body shivering as it was.

* * *

Several more hours passed as the group scoured the papers for any news that would be of assistance to them. They listened as Marietta recounted her history with Dumbledore's Army and turning in Potter's group to Umbridge. Her Mudblood father was incensed with Dumbledore at his daughter's mistreatment after finding out she had had her memory modified - a small crime in Draco's book, but he could appreciate the protective parental sentiment - and he pulled her from her seventh year after she owled home about increasing bullying because of the scars on her forehead. Her mother helped her to study from home so that she could sit her exams. Marietta passed her N.E.W.T.s early and got a job at the pub her parents owned in order to earn her modest inheritance.

Draco checked out for most of the conversation as his Occlumency shields grew weaker and his body continued to deteriorate at a rapid pace. As the day dragged on, he had more and more trouble focusing on what people were saying and doing. His eyes shut of their own accord, the lids too heavy to reopen. He was faintly aware of food being placed in front of him, but his head felt floaty and heavy all at once, and he wasn't sure eating would be feasible. Someone nudged his shoulder gently, and a soft, feminine voice floated across him. "Mmm" he felt rather than heard himself respond. A small, warm hand secured itself around his, and he followed the voice as it glided over him and guided him to a new place. He realised he wasn't moving anymore, and so, he burrowed deeply into the secure mattress which he was lying upon as the weight of thick, downy blankets were drawn over him, pinning him in place.

* * *

The nightmares always started in the same way. He was not so skilled an Occlumens to be able to hold his shields while unconscious, and as sleep claimed him - because it always came for him, eventually - the carefully constructed ice fortress built in his mind would begin to melt. As each block thawed, a new face would appear in his vision, his subconscious. Their tormented expressions, contorted with fear and pain, were trapped in his mind's eye to be revisited and replayed each night. Draco was mildly aware that tonight he must have had a fever, because the images were flashing quickly before his eyes; the ice was disintegrating at a much faster pace than normal, and he could barely breathe for the speed at which the faces flew towards him.

At first, they were just vague impressions of the unknown Muggles he had tortured as evidence of his loyalty to the cause, to the Dark Lord. He looked upon each visage dispassionately as it was replaced by another and then another. He did not know their names - and nor did he care to learn them - but their distinct features stood prominently before him: eyes, noses, cheeks and jaws misshapen and twisted in their terror. Soon, he was overwhelmed by even crisper reproductions of the faces, and this time they belonged to people he knew. The woman from the Three Broomsticks, Rosmerta; _his first Imperius_. Katie Bell, floating in the air; _agony and pain as she screamed_. The Weasel recovering in the hospital wing; _a narrow escape_. The old bastard, Albus fucking Dumbledore; _pleading... 'Severus, please'_. Charity Burbage; _also pleading... 'Severus, please, please'_. Longbottom, the Weaslette, Lovegood, Finnigan... They began to blur together as they ran ever more rapidly past his eyes - the countless faces of the people he had tortured. But they weren't countless, not really, for he could count every single one, etched into his being as they were.

Finally, the images stopped on Rowle; _his first kill._ He could barely look into the man's eyes as they floated in front of him, pale and vacant. If his soul weren't damaged enough, this man's death had surely sealed its fate. He had _killed_ , and he could not reverse that fact for all of the Time-Turners in the world. The spell had slipped so easily from his lips - like a whispered promise between two lovers - and when it landed on its target, his vow was fulfilled. Draco had never bothered to learn the countercurse which had saved his life after Potter sliced into him, but he wouldn't have used it on Rowle anyways. It was the first time he had admitted to himself that he would not have saved him even if he could have, and with the admission, he felt the delicate thread of his humanity snap. He was no more a man than the snake-faced master he had been beholden to. His lungs struggled to draw in air, and he felt his body convulse wildly as he struggled and failed to banish the lifeless image hovering over his mind.

After some time, everything gave way to blackness, and Draco was vaguely aware of a damp pressure across his head before he lost consciousness.

* * *

A stripe of sunlight was making its way across the bed through an open window, warming Draco's exposed skin where it landed. He had been awake for several minutes but kept his eyes shut, refusing to expose his crimes to the warm light of day. When the last of his dreams faded away, he tentatively opened one eye to take in his surroundings. He first noticed the gaudy, floral wallpaper of an unfamiliar room. Groaning in displeasure he attempted to sit up to make a hasty escape, but he discovered his left arm was tingling, asleep under the weight of one Astoria Greengrass. He was relieved to find both of them clothed beneath the duvet, even though he was not sure what had happened to his shirt. Beside the bed sat a bowl full of wet flannels and half empty glasses of water… She had apparently nursed him last night through his fever. Well, that was going to be a complication. He did not need someone getting attached to him, and certainly not a Greengrass. That one-off with her was exactly that, a one time thing; it was the eventuality after a night of strong drink and heavy flirting. He was far too damaged and much too fucked up to even consider burdening someone else with his internal crises, but it seemed at every turn Astoria was there with her blue eyes shining back at him with determination.

He tried to slip his arm out from underneath her, but she rustled beside him. "How're you feeling?" she mumbled through a voice thick with the remnants of sleep.

Sitting up, he winced at the pain throbbing in his head. "Fine," he responded between gritted teeth. In actuality, he felt as if he had shared a snog with a Dementor and had been dancing with Death all night long.

"Are you, really?" she challenged sarcastically, clearly having seen through his pitiable attempt at deception. She stretched her arms above her head with a yawn, and Draco averted his gaze as a few inches of her night shirt rode up, leaving her slim hips on display. Not only did he not need her getting attatched, but he did not need to be thinking of her like _that_. Enough of his days were spent miserable from potion withdrawal and anxiety without also dealing with unyielding hard-ons on top of it.

"Yes," he finally said, refusing to look at her. "I am always fine. I don't need a bloody mother, Greengrass."

He heard a note of hurt when she spoke after a beat. "Is that how it is now? I'm a convenient shag, otherwise you can't be troubled?"

"Yes, that's exactly how it is," he hissed tersely.

She let out a scoff along with her breath, and he felt the mattress dip as she rolled away from him. Moving wasn't worth the effort, so he stayed in place as he heard the telltale creak of the door hinge opening as Astoria presumably left. He was considering getting up to take a piss when he heard an obnoxiously grating voice speak. "She was up with you all night, you know." He did not respond.

"As I am sure you are aware," Pansy continued condescendingly, "the girl seems quite taken with you. Holding you while you shook, putting cool flannels on your neck and shoulders when you were too hot - it was quite the saccharine display."

Draco grimaced in disgust. Pansy chuckled softly.

"Oh Draco, don't tell me you hadn't seen this coming," she mocked. "You always were so good with picking up strays, weren't you?"

"Fuck off, Pansy," he growled. "I'm not in the mood for whatever the fuck this is."

"You never were," she murmured, a laughing taunt in her eye, like she dared him to deny it. Draco, who'd never cared for her games, rolled his eyes as he stood gingerly. There was a button down shirt on the floor which he pulled on with a grimace. Movement was decidedly difficult at the moment, but he had to get away from her before he hexed the smug nose off of her face.

"I can send Astoria back in," she offered dryly. "I'm sure she'd _love_ to tend to you."

He gave her his best version of a scowl, not sure if he managed it in the condition he was in. "Don't," he warned.

She shrugged, unfazed, but didn't move, watching him expectantly.

"You know I feel like absolute shit," Draco muttered, tossing her a sidelong glare. "If you're going to stay here, you might as well make your point."

"Who says I have a point?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "You always do."

"Oh, isn't that sweet," she murmured, smirking. "Still think you know me that well?"

He carefully avoided the question. "Not sure why you're wasting time on me, Pans," he said, pointedly turning his attention to the shirt buttons his shaky fingers struggled to put through the holes. "Isn't it Blaise's job to entertain you now?"

"Unlike you," she said, stretching languidly, "he doesn't consider it a job. And also unlike you," she added, with a slow deliberation, "I, unfortunately, suffer from some lingering need to make sure you're not suffering."

He looked up dubiously at her, watching her carefully for a moment. He finally spoke, eyes trained on hers in warning. "Don't act like you know me."

"Don't act like I don't," she spat, green eyes flashing.

They continued to look at one another, both unwilling to be the first to turn away, to concede defeat.

Pansy finally broke eye contact, turning around. She said over her shoulder, "Go find your witch and fix this," before disappearing through the door.

Draco fell back onto the bed with a groan. _She's not my fucking witch!_ he yelled in his head. _Fucking bloody hell._

* * *

"Fucking hell, you dickwads have been in front of that thing for days now." Draco sniffed in disapproval.

"Oh, fuck off, there's nothing else to do in this hole of a house anyways," Blaise retorted.

The little television box sat in corner of the small living room of the Edgecombe guest house, and tonight it was blaring some absurdity in which filthy men were running about jeering and taunting a 'witch' with a ridiculous false nose.

"A witch! A witch! Burn her!" the mob on the television cheered. Draco huffed out an impatient breath, plopping onto a vacant arm chair.

He watched the small box as a man in the crowd claimed, "She turned me into a newt!"

"Please," Theo scoffed, "as if any of those Muggles could Transfigure a goblet let alone a human."

Pansy cut in to add her opinion, "I don't even think _the Weasleys_ own robes that ghastly!"

"If she weighs the same as a duck...she's made of wood," the scene continued. "And therefore… a witch!"

"Bollocks," Blaise complained, "absolute fucking rubbish."

"Is that really how Muggles view us?" Astoria asked warily. "They think we are made of wood?"

"Who says we don't have wood?" Blaise quipped. Draco and Theo snickered under their breaths.

Astoria sighed in annoyance, getting up from her spot on the floor to leave. "Honestly, it's like living with _children_."

Pansy retorted, "Try dealing with them for more than a decade. This sorry lot never left their nappies and nannies behind."

"Hey," Theo cried, "I take offense to that. I have been shitting in toilets for several years now."

"Only several," Pansy responded with an eye roll, following Astoria into one of the bedrooms.

A few minutes later, Marietta came through the door, and Draco found himself sitting up straighter in the chair and checking for his wand in his trouser pocket. Theo took notice and shot him a questioning glance before greeting the girl.

"Oh, Monty Python! I love this one," she declared, nudging Blaise to make room for her beside him on the couch. Draco studied the girl from the corner of his eye as he pretended to watch the picture. Her eyes had dark bruises around them from lack of sleep, and her pronounced collar bones showed evidence of weight loss, even in the last five days since they had arrived. There was something about the girl and her deteriorating physical state that did not sit right with him. Even in her charity towards them - which would be unsurprising from a bleeding-heart Gryffindor - was out of place from a bitter Ravenclaw with a schoolgirl grudge. She was benefiting from their precarious alliance in some way, and Draco would not truly let down his defenses until he knew for certain what it was.

Feeling too anxious to sit still, Draco moved to the kitchen to get a glass of water and stretch his legs. A tawny owl rapped on the window, delivering a special, evening edition of the _Prophet_.

"Was that a paper?" Theo asked.

"No, it was a love letter for you from my mother." Draco rolled his eyes, scanning the bolded headlines. "Looks like Potter's vigilante group has been trying to get into the Ministry."

"Of course, they can't let their hero die in vain," Blaise retorted, disgust thick in his voice.

"Ugh, Potter," Theo scoffed.

"There was a scrimmage on the Wizengamot level - no doubt trying to make it to the Minister himself, the bloody Gryffindor fools."

Marietta cursed under her breath, "Fuck, mum!"

"What was that, Marietta?" Draco heard the soft swear and wasn't about to let it go.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat for a second before looking away, her chin quivered slightly as she took a shaky breath. "My mum works in the Ministry… She's a Wizengamot administrator…"

"Fucking hell, Edgecombe!" Draco roared, slamming the glass down onto the counter, furious. "When were you going to share that piece of information with us?" She burst into tears at his outburst.

Through her sobs, Marietta responded, "I didn't want you to think… She's been gone for weeks, held hostage there!"

Draco barged into the bedroom, ignoring the girl's excuses. He fucking knew it! She was not to be trusted, and whatever reason she had for helping them could not be good. He cast an _Accio_ on everything he could think of, and shoved it roughly into his magically extended bag. He heard the muffled voices of the others as they argued, but did his best to block out everything. Pansy and Astoria burst out of the bedroom adjacent his and had joined the argument in the living room by the sound of things. He slid behind his Occlumency shields to try to find a place of calm. It had been several days since he last had a potion, and he needed _something_ to take the edge off of his anxiety, so disappearing into the arctic chill of his mind had been the next best thing available.

When he finally collected everything - including his wits about him - he went back into the living room to find chaos. They were all shouting over one another while Marietta sobbed through her explanations.

"Her father is a Mudblood, and her mother is trapped at the Ministry. We shouldn't have fucking stayed!" Pansy shrieked over everyone.

"We are vulnerable here, we have to move," demanded Theo.

"I agree," Draco intoned calmly. "I am not going to stay here and await my death."

"Where will you go?" Blaise questioned. "We have no place safe!"

"Fucking anywhere is better than here," Pansy yelled, hitting him roughly in the shoulder. "We are sitting ducks."

"Might as well have invited Voldemort himself to have tea," Theo agreed. "Or better yet, how about we invite the _Walpurgis_ idiots?" Theo added sarcastically.

"Let's just go-" Draco started, but was cut off by the sounds of voices surrounding the house.

Through an open window, he caught the unmistakable voice of Thoros Nott, "Surround them. I want my son and the Malfoy boy left alive. You can kill the rest."

He met Theo's eyes for an instant before Theo raised his wand to Disapparate. Nothing happened. Draco turned to Marietta who was shaking with fear in the corner, her face white and eyes wide. "What have you done?" he demanded of the girl.

"I… I am sorry. I… need to get my mum back," she answered, voice shaking as she rocked back and forth. "They told me they would if I gave you up."

"Sounds like they lied," Draco sneered.

Draco looked around the room, scanning the windows and doors for an exit. The men surrounding them had warded the house so they couldn't Apparate away. _How the fuck were they going to get out?_ They all turned towards the sound of the kitchen door opening and then back around as the handle of the front door began to rattle. The thought came to him so effortlessly at that moment; he reached into his bag and summoned the last bit of Instant Darkness Powder he had left as he motioned for them all to come close.

"What the fuck is that?" Pansy whispered in disgust, pointing to the shriveled, grey hand he held.

Draco put a finger to his lips for her to be quiet and then motioned for everyone to hold onto the next person. The front door creaked open slowly, and he saw a foot boot edge over the threshold. He glanced back to the kitchen doorway to see the dark figure of Nott Sr. entering. Draco threw the handful of black powder on the ground, instantly creating darkness in the small cottage. The girls shrieked with fear, and a small hand gripped the back of his robes, fingers digging into his flesh. He heard Thoros shout, "Get them!" and the hand on his back pushed roughly into him, shoving him forward. The shriveled Hand of Glory lit his path to the front door while he was pushed by a line of people behind him. He Stunned a few of the men blocking the exit, climbing over their prone bodies and bursting forth into the night.

Once outside, he broke into a run and aimed for the surrounding woods, feeling the push and pull of the line of people hanging on behind him. The moon lit their way, and he felt the ripple of magic as the Edgecombe wards fell away. Skidding to a halt at the tree line, he turned, grabbing the hand of the person behind him, Astoria.

Blaise and Pansy were right behind Astoria, breathing heavily. "Where's Theo?" Draco asked gasping for air.

"He was right behind us," Blaise said, looking around them as though Theo would suddenly appear.

Draco ran his hand through his hair, pulling hard on it. "Fuck, I have to-" Draco knew that they had only seconds.

"Go! Apparate! They're coming!" Theo's voice was loud and demanding, and when he finally came into view, Theo was leading a scared girl with golden curly locks bouncing behind her. _He should have been a Gryffindor,_ Draco thought fleetingly. He saw the curses before he saw the men throwing them. Red, green, white, and orange lights were everywhere, making them scatter behind the trees. He pulled Astoria behind him, watching the other pairs hide where they could.

Catching Theo's eyes, Draco wondered what was going on behind them, but he didn't have time to ask. Theo nodded in his direction before casting a Disillusionment charm on first Marietta and then himself. Draco stared at the blank place which Theo and Marietta once were as he heard the unmistakable crack of Disapparation. _What the fuck is he thinking?_ _They'd be separated now!_

A curse hit the tree Blaise and Pansy were standing behind, bringing his attention to the other side. Smoke began to billow from the leaves as a gaping, splintered hole burned in the wood. "Oh fuck this, c'mon Blaise." Pansy grabbed Blaise and Disapparated away, not even glancing towards Draco and Astoria.

"Draco, we have to go. They're coming," Astoria said, fear evident in her shaking voice.

He looked down at her, blue eyes darkened by the night sky and filled with fear. She was still gripping his hand, her fingers holding onto his in a vise-grip. So many thoughts swirled in his brain, but only one came to the forefront; self preservation. He shifted the bag on his shoulder, held his wand up, and Apparated into the night.

* * *

~ A big, sloppy, wet kiss to **olivieblake** who ran some of the Pansy/Draco dialogue through her magical Slytherin filters and helped me get out of the horrible rut I was in. Thanks, love. Xoxo **oblivionbaby** ~

~And tremendous thanks to both **Jade Presley** and **Kyonomiko** who binged and reviewed all of our chapters in a couple of days. Thank you for your feedback!~


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER 12**

* * *

The pull of Apparition left Hermione with a distinctly queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, not to be outdone by the sinking nausea that greeted them at the sight of Shell Cottage. Broken windows stood in stark contrast as tattered curtains blew from the open glass. Everything was in complete shambles; the back door was lying on what was now a cracked open porch. As they approached, they realized the inside was no better than the out. It had been thoroughly ransacked and rummaged through. The long table—where dinners and meetings were held—was on its side, and broken chairs were scattered around the floor. A cupboard door was hanging from its hinges, a scorch mark running down the outside of it. The protective enchantments were in shreds, and the lingering traces of magic were only a whisper, too faint to decipher. Whatever had happened here, the house was no longer safe. Her friends—their family—were gone and had been for quite some time.

Shortly after arriving, George had found his way to their old dune, where he picked at the grass and stared blankly towards the water. Hermione dug her toes into the hot sand while she cast familiar enchantments around the property to ensure their protection, at least for the night. She found herself mildly distracted at the despondent demeanor he had so easily adopted since discovering Shell Cottage in such a state, and that same moroseness carried into their evening together.

She and George found comfort in each other's arms in the upstairs room where she had slept during her first nights here. They did not speak about their destitute circumstances—there were no words anyways. They both knew that the Order, the Weasleys, and every one of their friends had been lost to them. They did not have access to Kilchurn Castle where the majority of people had been taken after the Final Battle, and all other known safe houses, including The Burrow and Grimmauld Place, had been compromised. Unless they found a way to draw them out from under the Fidelius Charm, there was not a great chance Hermione or George would see any of them again.

Tonight, she clung to him—her safe harbor—as she had so many nights in a row. The salt rich air floated in through the open window as the silver of the moon washed their pale, exposed bodies in light. Hermione had long ago memorized each freckle and each ripple of muscle, and she traced each dip and valley as a cartographer mapping a discovered wonder. Her mind was blessedly silent as she worked, allowing her more primal instincts to guide her.

And when she took him in her mouth, she relished the hiss that slid past his gritted teeth as he restrained himself from pumping into her. In a world where everything was out of control, at least in this—in his pleasure—she could be the one in perfect control. She could be the one who had the answers; the key to his undoing.

* * *

The next morning was a somber affair. The barren cupboards echoed their creaky-hinge song as the pair silently ate their baked beans which had been heated over a conjured bluebell fire. Eventually, they rose and scrounged for every last item that could possibly be of use to them. Even the torn drapery and broken doors came down and were stowed away, to be transfigured into something more favorable on another day, in another place. What remained of the furniture was shrunken and added to Hermione's small, magically expanded, beaded bag which was now bursting to its capacity.

The Order had done a thorough job of cleaning the place of most everything; all traces the home had recently been inhabited were removed before they had even arrived, save for a few cupboard staples forgotten in the out-building. The Weasleys had clearly not planned on returning here, and the thought that they had not planned on returning for _them_ stabbed at Hermione's heart. They were her family in every right, and she felt an acute sense of abandonment by them—however misplaced those feelings were. For every bit of loss she felt, though, she needed only to look into George's hollow gaze to realize he felt it tenfold.

She caught his eyes, and the naked grief displayed there crushed her. He was a shell of the former jovial and spirited man he had finally begun to resemble in the aftermath of Fred's death, and, now, with the realization of possibly losing his family forever, Hermione worried the sorrow would be too much to bear. How would they survive if they were both sinking?

After they finished eating, George left, wordlessly, through the front door, and Hermione did a final sweep through the home, erasing any evidence of their presence.

When she found him again, it was at the ocean's edge, staring out into the water. The blue sky and lapping waves were exactly as Hermione remembered—a wide open expanse to swallow her whole. Their eternally stretching horizons were a welcome contrast to the isolating seclusion of the woodlands, and she wished it were safe for them to remain at the beach and hide away here forever.

George held his shoulders rigid and straight, and it was clear he was working very hard at keeping it together. She approached him carefully, the sand swallowing the sound of her footsteps, and wrapped her arms around him, resting her cheek against his back. His body slackened at her touch and shook with the tears he had tried so hard to keep locked away. She held on securely, keeping him afloat as the waves of his grief pummeled him down.

His feet dragged slightly as he finally trudged away from the last home he had shared with his family. Hermione's hand gripped his firmly—a last reassurance that _someone_ was there for him still.

Pausing thoughtlessly at the edge of the dunes where the old Apparition site used to be, she closed her eyes against the bright midday light, imagining the woods she had previously shared with two families—first with her parents and then with Harry.

The Forest of Dean.

* * *

It took several weeks to get the totality of Hermione's bag unpacked and sorted through. The tent was set up and magically expanded, and the furniture was returned to its normal size. A bedroom space was created with the old double from her room at Shell Cottage. Neatly stacked on top of the bureau beside the bed were the myriad tomes she had collected over the last few years, and its drawers housed all of their clothes and food supplies.

After a few hours practice, they were able to break down their camp site in just a few minutes; Hermione worked to shrink down the furniture and everything stored inside the drawers, summon the books, and break down the tent—all of which was stored in her little beaded bag—and George took down their wards while erasing any magical signatures lingering.

It wasn't perfect, nor was it permanent, but it was home for now.

George installed a homemade irrigation system of pipes conjured from fallen limbs, which led to a transfigured bathtub. The fishing traps he built caught salmon from a nearby river, which provided more than enough for the two of them, and the surplus was smoked and preserved for future months when the fish would be small or unavailable.

With every new solution and invention, Hermione could see some of George's hurt exterior crack aside, and brief glimpses of the joyful man inside shone through. With every smile, every casual touch, every glimmer in his eyes, Hermione took a deep breath and relaxed just a little bit more. George was returning to her, and the purpose he had in getting their camp running smoothly seemed to bring him out of his misery and distract him from the reality of their solitude.

They were a surprisingly capable team for a number of weeks together. Her skills in charms and transfiguration complemented George's natural penchant for ingenuity and creation, and together they built a quiet corner in the Forest of Dean where they felt remotely safe and could recover.

"I've been thinking—"

George grumbled audibly. "Oh no, not that again."

"Very funny." She smacked him on the arm teasingly. "We need a way to go into town and get some news. There's a Wizarding village not far off from here, and I bet we can find a copy or two of the _Prophet_. It could help us—George, are you listening?"

He had turned his back on her and was rummaging around in their magically expanded chest of drawers, seemingly uninterested in the topic at hand, and she waited impatiently for him to return his attention to her. A few moments later he let out an "Aha!" and twisted sharply back, proudly displaying a flask in one hand.

"Whisky? Honestly . . . As I was saying—"

"Not whisky. Take a sniff," he offered, unscrewing the lid and proffering it for her inspection.

She studied his features for any hint of mischief before tilting her head down to cautiously discern the flask's contents.

"George, you have Polyjuice?" she shouted, snatching the container from him.

"Well, it's not pumpkin juice!"

Her eyes widened in excitement, and her mind buzzed with possibility. "I happen to have a few hairs in my supplies that I have been saving since my time on the run with the boys—"

"I hope they are male," George cut in. "As cute as I would look in your bra, I don't think I can pull off pink."

Hermione stuck out her tongue at him. "Of course there's both male and female. I am not keen on having extra bits either, thank you very much."

George brushed his hands over her ribs through her thin tank top, emphasising the curve of her breasts as he passed them. "No, I very much like these the way they are."

"Well, hopefully the hair I pulled doesn't make you too jealous. I could be an extra fit super-model, you never know."

"Or I can just take the juice, and you can stay here," he offered casually—too casually.

"What are you talking about? Of course I'm going with you!" She angled away from him, and he moved to grip her waist, keeping her from leaving.

"I wouldn't want to risk it," he said.

"Risk what? We would be strangers—"

"Risk you getting hurt, or found out . . ." His eyes were sincere, but she could barely look at him through her frustration. "You should stay here," he added more firmly.

Hermione felt heat warm her cheeks as her anger flared. "As I'm sure you are aware, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Of course you are, that's not what—"

"I do not need you to protect me, George Fabian Weasley!"

He suddenly stepped in close to her, pressing their bodies together, hip to hip. Involuntarily, Hermione felt a shiver rise over her with the anticipation of their proximities. He bent his head down low, ghosting his breath over the shell of her ear as he whispered, "You are far too valuable to me, Hermione, to risk even a stray hex. This is something I have to do . . . alone."

His teeth grazed her sensitive earlobe, and she whimpered, needy.

"I am asking . . . Please," he breathed.

And with those words, she exhaled her frustration—capitulating.

"All right," she conceded, drawing back to place the flask in his palm once more and shooting him her best Molly Weasley look. "But I will not have you screwing about. You get the papers and come straight back."

He kissed her deeply, and the remnants of her anger at his handling of her melted away with her resolve.

* * *

"I feel like we have been eating fish and your mother's beans for two months," Hermione grumbled.

"That's because we have, love," George replied consolingly, patting her knee affectionately while scooping out another bite from the jar.

"I'm sick of beans."

"Beans, beans, the magical fruit. The more you eat, the more you—"

"And I am sick of that song!" she cried.

"I think you like feeding me beans. Better to keep you warm at night with." He winked, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"You are such a child . . . Fart jokes, really?"

He chuckled and leant in to give her a kiss. Turning her head at the last second, his lips caught her cheek instead. She promptly wiped away the tomato sauce left behind in disgust.

"Lovely, George. Thanks for that."

"Happy to be of service." His grin was smug, and she rolled her eyes once more, half amused and half irritated.

* * *

They were well into August now, and Hermione could not help but think about the many summers she had spent with a different Weasley, waiting anxiously for the return of the first of September and a chance to stand on platform nine and three-quarters.

She smiled tenderly at the thought of sharing sweets and chasing Chocolate Frogs in the last cabin of the Hogwarts Express with Harry and Ron, their smiles bright and expectant of what another year at Hogwarts could bring. The initial sting and swell of emotions coupling any thoughts of her boys had abated somewhat, and she was now able to think on them and their memories together with some fondness interlaced with the sadness.

Even with a Horcrux around their necks and death chasing their heels, the trio had always been able to find some hope in their circumstances, and that is the same hope she drew upon now. She allowed it to push her, to change her, to make her better. Their deaths shook her to the very core of herself, and the important things became the _only_ things, while the extraneous fell away like sand through her fingers.

She drew out the vital _Daily Prophet_ editions George had brought back after his Polyjuice foray. With the articles, they had been able to piece together a much clearer picture of the world changing around them. While they had not encountered any problems in their corner of the forest, Wizarding villages everywhere were being raped, pillaged, and plundered on a regular basis by a villainous group calling themselves the Knights of Walpurgis. People were being murdered in their homes while they slept, and kidnapped from Diagon Alley while they shopped. Even Hogwarts was not reopening—closed indefinitely—without an acting headmaster available to oversee repairs.

Amidst all of the horrific news, she was surprised to find that the most unsettling to her was the front page of one particular paper. On it was the face of a boy—a man, really—Hermione had not thought about for a very long time.

 **WANTED, DRACO MALFOY.**

 _ **SON OF A DEATH EATER, ATTEMPTED MURDER, USE OF UNFORGIVABLES, SUSPECTED KIDNAPPING OF ASTORIA GREENGRASS, EVADED CAPTURE, CONSPIRATOR WITH THE LATE TOM RIDDLE.**_

Hermione had spent long moments studying the picture of her childhood rival, and, even now, she could not find it in herself to hold one scrap of resentment against him. Perhaps it was the simple fact of time apart that helped to dissolve the bitterness she had carried towards him, or maybe it was her knowledge of Severus Snape's true allegiance that had cast doubt upon the boy's own loyalties, but as Hermione sat cross legged in her hammock above the forest floor, staring into the eyes of Draco Malfoy, _she knew_ that she was not looking at the face of a true Death Eater.

Like Harry, far too much was asked of Draco. And like Hermione, far too much loneliness haunted him. It was written all over his face—the fear, the pain, the abandonment. They might be different fears, different longings, but the desperation in his gaze resonated with Hermione. She wondered where this picture was even taken, and if he even knew he was being photographed. It looked to be a recent picture, but his surroundings did not seem like somewhere Draco Malfoy would live, and the look etched upon his features was not his normal mask. She watched the picture over and over again; his silhouette moving behind a curtain, his hand appearing, brushing the fabric to the side as he placed both his palms heavily against the window sill, staring out towards the camera.

She ached to see a world set to rights, fearing her failure to see it through. She hurt with the burden of every child who would not receive their Hogwarts letters, their childhoods forever altered by war. She cried in her loneliness, even more hollow now without her best friends than before she had ever had any to begin with.

Draco and Hermione were not the same, but they were not so different either.

She jumped when something touched her back, quickly unsheathing her wand and twisting around to point it at . . . George. It was just George . . . who was apparently peering down to read over her shoulder.

"Merlin, you startled me," she said, exhaling in relief.

"Sorry, love. You were quite immersed."

"Yes, I was just looking through the articles again to make sure there wasn't anything I missed the first 203 times," she responded dryly.

"The git is finally getting what's coming to him after all of these years, eh?" he joked, flicking Draco's nose with his fingers.

"Right, what's coming to him . . ." she agreed dispassionately, her stomach dropping as she spoke the lie.

* * *

September did not provide any relief from the sweltering heat, and Hermione pulled at her top which was already sticking to her skin uncomfortably though it was not yet half ten. Perspiration ran down the back of her neck from her riotous curls which refused to be tamed in the unseasonable humidity. They had been camping for too long, stuck with just one another and a jar of beans between them. In her irritation, she snapped at him too often, and he continued to make jokes and play pranks in retaliation, refusing to let her sour the mood.

The last few weeks found her engrossed in revisions. She was more determined than ever to come across a breakthrough in her modified Location Tracking Charm which had been giving her trouble. By force of habit, she continued to read into the late hours of the night and had even taken to sleeping in her hammock amongst the sheaths of parchment and bottles of ink—weather permitting, of course.

George regularly brought her tea or homemade sweets in an attempt to coax her back into their tent, but she shooed him away each time. Though she was grateful for the effort, she could not be bothered. Finding the Knights was of even greater importance than all of her tests at Hogwarts put together, and she was consumed in her attempt to do _something_.

She leant back against the cool stone of a large boulder, relishing in the relief it gave her overheated skin. The Cooling Charms were only so efficient in heat like this, and really someone should look into fixing that. Not her though. Not today, she reminded herself.

Rubbing the fatigue from her eyes, she gathered her thoughts and began scratching quill to parchment once again.

A few equations later, a horrible smell assaulted her senses, and Hermione found herself instantly annoyed with the creator of such an interruption.

" _George_ , will you move?" Hermione called out without looking up from her parchment.

"What?" he asked.

"Move, you dolt. I am trying to concentrate."

"I'm concentrating too," he said matter of factly.

Glancing up from her arithmancy calculations, she watched as George added a few wild mushrooms to a concoction he had bubbling over the fire. His eyebrows were drawn together while his gaze remained fixed on the brew in a single-minded effort.

"I can see that," she affirmed gently, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. "But you're still being horribly distracting."

" _I'm_ being distracting?" he questioned, looking up at her finally. "You're the one talking, and now my potion is going to sour since I lost count on the stirs."

"Don't blame this on me," she scolded, thoroughly annoyed now. "I am trying to read, and that ghastly experiment is giving off a rancid smell. I can barely breathe with the wind blowing the fumes this way."

"So move somewhere else."

"I asked you to move," she corrected.

"And I asked you. You can read anywhere," he pointed out, gesturing to the open space around them, "but there's only one fire."

"Do you have to do that now? I will lose daylight shortly."

"The day you stop reading because the sun is down, is the day I give up humor."

"Ha-ha," she said dryly. "Be serious, I am trying to work out the probability of our success rates—"

He sighed loudly and returned to his soup-pot cauldron. "Very important brewing happening here, love."

"Oh yes, so utterly important," she said sarcastically. "Those Puking Pastilles will bring the Knights of Walpurgis to their knees."

"I am not making Puking Pastilles."

"Whatever you're brewing can wait. That's for fun, and my calculations are for something of paramount significance. If we can figure out a way to put a trace on the suspected Knights members, I am sure that we can find the Order—"

George interrupted her with an exaggerated snoring noise and a nod of his head, as if he fell asleep listening to her.

"This is serious, George! Don't you want to find your family?"

"Of course I do," he snapped. "You know I do . . . But I have listened to you ramble on about this insane plan for ages now, and we are no closer than when we started."

Hermione opened her mouth to cut him off, but he continued on.

"Listen, if the Knights know where anyone is in the Order, they would have probably already been killed by now. I don't see these guys wasting their time—"

"George! Don't talk like that!"

"It's true, and you know it. They are even worse than the Death Eaters. You've seen the papers. Hell, you've memorized the papers. These are not the sort to follow around Kingsley and wait for him to make a wrong move. They will kill anyone they deem a threat without hesitation."

"This will work," she protested. "It's our only shot."

"So, what, you're going to put a charm on a bunch of mad men and follow them around, hoping they lead you to one of my ginger relatives before they rape and dismember you?"

"Yes, do you have any other ideas?"

"You know I don't, or we wouldn't be stuck here still!"

"If you would stop tinkering around with your rubbish inventions and help me, maybe we could come up with a better plan together," Hermione challenged.

"You spend all your time planning, and it gets us nowhere," George retorted. "At least my _tinkering_ results in something."

"It results in nonsense that doesn't help us in our current situation."

"I thought we could use a bit of fun," he remarked.

"And I thought without Fred here, you would have grown up a little."

George's eyes cast downward instantly as his jaw dropped open in shock. He looked as if he had just been slapped. The knuckles of his fists turned white as they clenched tightly at his sides in a visible effort of restraint.

 _Oh, shit, what did I just do?_

"George, I—" she began.

"DON'T!" he snarled.

"George, that's not—I didn't—"

"Don't bother . . ." He turned bruskly away from her, stalking back towards the tent.

Hermione jogged to catch up to him, grabbing his bicep to stop him. "Please . . ."

He turned on her, his face colored with fury. "What are we doing here Hermione? Playing house in the woods?"

"No, George, I am . . . I shouldn't have."

"No, you shouldn't."

She reeled back, chastised. "That wasn't supposed to have come out that way. I . . . You're so brilliant, and I have seen so much of your potential in the things you did to set up camp, and I thought that . . . It feels like a waste sometimes. If you could only apply yourself . . . I mean, do you want to make sweets and toys the rest of your life? Prank people? There's a whole world out there that is hurting, and we should be out there fixing it."

"Enough," he snapped. "I don't need your explanation. And I certainly don't need your guilt trip. I'm not interested in going out to fix anything. What I . . . What _we_ did—Fred and me—was important. We took care of people and made them laugh when there was nothing in the world worth being happy over. I thought . . . I thought I was doing the same for you, but apparently I was wrong."

A thick silence fell between them, and, for once, Hermione was at a total loss for words. She was hurt, upset, and confused; making sense of it was impossible. It was as if the current had shifted, and she could not find her footing. They were standing just a few feet apart, but it felt as if they were separated by oceans.

Long minutes passed, and Hermione watched George's features change, a countenance of sadness replacing that of anger. He took a deep breath and finally spoke quietly, "I need some air."

"We live outside."

"Well, I need some fucking space, then."

* * *

Hermione watched his retreating form through the trees until he was out of sight. She huffed in annoyance, but, at the same time, she was angry with herself for what she had said. Somewhere along the way, things had begun to change between them and that scared her. Hermione had felt so much of her original self die with the deaths of Harry and Ron, and she had found a solace in George for so long in her recovery, but something had shifted as time went on, and lately she did not find the need to be under his wing all the time. However, she could not do this without him.

Still, what she had said, even if the words were somewhat true to how she felt, was out of line; she should never have mentioned Fred—that was a low blow, the lowest of low. Hermione sighed in resignation, knowing she needed to make this right between them. Looking around their campsite, it occurred to her that maybe this place was what the problem was. She was stir-crazy and irritated about everything, and maybe taking a break from camping would help bring them closer again.

She resorted to waiting for George to return in the tent entrance, cross-legged and a newspaper splayed out on the ground in front of her. When she heard his footsteps she closed the paper and stood to greet him. The look of calmness and remorse etched across his face, which mirrored her own countenance, soothed her immediately, and the lump in her throat eased so she could swallow.

"I'm sorry," they both said at the same time. George smiled at her, and she returned his shyly.

Hermione rubbed her hands on her trousers and decided it was best to just get her thoughts out now.

"George," she started, hoping he would be up for her idea, "I'd like to go to a nearby Muggle city for the night. There's a Wizarding hotel there . . ." She looked up to see his eyes widen a bit. "We need a break from this," she said, gesturing around them at their campsite. "Let's go be normal for just a bit. Get a proper meal, and you never know, maybe we'll be able to round up news."

George's expression softened from slight surprise to more of a gentle look he often gave her in their more intimate moments, and then his eyes sparkled with mischief. "Are you asking me on a date, Hermione?"

She rolled her eyes but still smiled happily at him. "We just need a break from camping, George."

"Alright, I agree we've been cooped up here for far too long, but if we do this, we both use Polyjuice, okay?"

She nodded her assent.

They made quick work of breaking down their camp, deciding it would be best to Apparate to the hills beyond the city's border and then hike to the heart where the hotel sat. They lingered at the edge of the town, sitting on a low garden wall and watching the people pass.

George snagged a tourist's map from a rubbish bin, and they chatted about what their plan was once they made their way into the crowd.

"Let's see if we can get a room at the hotel," she said as she dug around in her beaded bag to find the satchel of galleons to pay for the room. She palmed the stack of gold; it wasn't much, but it would get them a room and a proper meal with a little to spare for later if they found to be in need.

"I think maybe we should head for tea first," George replied. "We only have a few swallows of Polyjuice left, and I bet we could grab a few papers to see what the Muggles are saying in their news and maybe even catch some gossip at the hotel."

Hermione huffed as her impatience grew, knowing that she was nervous about being in public after so much time alone. "Which means we should get settled first so we make a well thought out plan and make sure to allow enough potion to get us out of this bloody town again."

George responded by grabbing her hand and pulling her to her feet. "Ok, you win, let's go."

She let him take the lead, and they walked hand in hand toward the throng of people. The cobbled streets and flowered gardens were very welcoming, and the small city had a feeling of life, even with the cloud covered sky that left a fog hanging over the rooftops.

They travelled up the street, taking in the buildings around them. Hermione could hardly suppress a groan as they passed a bookstore, the window piled high with tomes; George laughed, and he squeezed her hand as they continued their walk up the sloping hill. At last they halted in front of a large building which was clearly the focal point of the street; its whitewashed sides and darkly painted beams gave the hotel a very medieval look, and it stood out prominently from the smaller storefronts and cottages surrounding it. Magic made it viewable to other wizards, but Hermione knew that Muggles must pass by it without a second glance with the strong Notice-Me-Not Charm placed around it.

"Maybe we should just eat and then go back to camping?" Hermione asked nervously, glancing over to George.

"Nonsense, we're already here. We may as well enjoy ourselves."

"But there's going to be Wizards in there . . ."

"That's rather the point, isn't it?" George questioned.

Groaning, Hermione forced herself to relax. "Yes, I'm just being paranoid."

George led her towards the building, resting his hand on her lower back as he opened the door. She tried to push away the unwanted feeling of irritation at this gesture, but it lingered heavily in her chest. Stepping inside and away from his palm, Hermione found herself relieved to be separate from him once more, and she did her best to shake off the unsettled feeling that persisted.

After making reservations for the night, they made their way up the stairs to their room. It wasn't much; a single bed sat against the wall, and a small desk was in the corner, but they had a view that overlooked the cobbled street below which more than made up for the sparse furnishings. Hermione opened the window, taking in the fresh air and relishing in the floral scents that blew past her on the breeze. The murmured sounds of women talking floated up to the open window, but she turned away from them to look at George who had now reverted back into his true appearance and was propped up against the pillows on the bed, hands behind his head and feet crossed at the ankles.

"Not so bad, huh, love?" he asked her, eyebrows dancing up and down as he bounced on the mattress, causing the springs to creak.

"I think I will take a bath," she said, feeling her own body shift back from her Polyjuiced form. She turned away from him, careful to not let him see her as she rolled her eyes at his suggestive comment.

Hermione made her way to the small bathroom and sighed in pleasure at the sight of the claw footed bath tub. While she was able to bathe in the tent, the basin was hardly bigger than a kitchen sink. She turned on the tap, letting the hot water fill most of the tub before turning on the cold. Steam rose up from the water, and she dipped her naked toe in a bit to feel the temperature. It was too hot, just the way she wanted it. As she sank the rest of her leg in and slowly lowered herself into the scalding water, a tingling sensation crawled up her body; it took her breath away, and she was sure her skin was red from the heat. After a few moments, her body adjusted, and her head rested back against the porcelain. Closing her eyes and swirling her hands through the water, she made a hot undercurrent flow over her flesh. She had no intentions of getting out of this tub until the water was ice cold.

Hearing hurried footsteps coming toward the bathroom, she cracked her eyes open and propped herself up just as George stepped through the door.

"Where's your bag? I need the Extendable Ears," George demanded quickly, eyes raking the white tiled floor where she had left her clothes.

"It's right there." Her head nodded to the sink, where she left the bag propped on its edge. "George, what's going on? Why do you need those?"

"Here, just hold onto this end while I get the other situated."

George handed her two sets of the flesh-colored strings and took off with the other end out of the room. Hermione's brain was spinning too fast; she could not begin to come up with a reason why George was listening to someone's conversation, and there was a nagging fear that if they needed to leave quickly, she was sitting naked in a bathtub. He returned quickly and shoved one string into his ear, motioning for her to do the same with the other. The voices were clear, as if she was sitting right next the two women she had heard from the window.

". . . the rumor is that some people tried to break into the Ministry a few months ago to save those people held hostage, and now they are all on the run. Those crazy bastards are burning down all the Wizarding villages in search of them." There was a pause in the conversation, and she heard a tinkle of china as she assumed the speaker had taken a drink of tea.

"And supposedly," the woman continued, "the only one left of Harry Potter's friends is that frizzy-haired girl—Remember the one that broke Harry's heart a few years ago? Well, I guess she is their number one target."

Hermione felt her mouth drop open, and she looked to George to see him staring at her, eyes wide as they continued to listen.

"Where did you hear all this, Blanche? Surely, not your crazy sister?" a different voice asked.

"Don't you ever read the paper, Dorothy?! Not that it's all the truth, but you can read between the lines. "

Hermione heard the telltale sounds of stirring sugar cubes in a tea cup, and then the first speaker, Blanche, continued. "I don't know . . . Seems like they are hellbent on finding that girl though."

"Who could be in charge of these terrors, burning everything and kidnapping Ministry workers?" Dorothy questioned. "No one was more powerful than You-Know-Who?" Her voice lowered nearly to a whisper, "What is their cause?"

"Hush, Dorothy! Don't ask such questions out in the open! You already know they want power."

"Okay, okay," she responded hastily. "So what of the resistance? Has anyone been able to track them down as of yet, or are they still in hiding?"

"No, still missing. The way I see it though, it's only a matter of time until they are caught or come out fighting. Those sods think they can just run around trying to take down these evil people . . . It's probably for the better they are in hiding . . . Either way, we might as well keep our heads down and mind our business. Let them try to fix this. That's why we moved to this Muggle city to begin with, right?"

"Yes, I suppose you're right."

The conversation paused for another moment to the slurping of tea, and then the voice of Dorothy spoke again, "My flutterby bush keeps wilting and the leaves are curling up on the ends. I have tried Mooncalf dung, but it just …"

Hermione pulled the string from her ear, and stared past George unseeingly. He stood and began wrapping the strings around his hand. She didn't know what to make of the situation. There was the hope of the Order still out there, but, then again, she had half a mind to listen to the elderly lady and just keep her head down. And then there was the fact that they were actually hunting specifically for her—that little detail had not made it into any of the copies of the _Prophet_ that George had been able to procure. The terrifying chill of Death's finger-tips crawled up her spine, and the hot water was no longer soothing. She sat upright in the tub and began to pull herself from the water.

George moved from the room as she reached for her towel. "I thought you said this was a Muggle town?" he asked from the bedroom, irritation clear in his voice.

She clamped her jaw hard and fought back the retort she wished to throw his way. Wrapping the towel around her body she followed after him. "It is a Muggle town, but I also told you it was a Wizarding hotel. Didn't you see me pay in galleons?"

"Whatever you say, _dear_." He rolled his eyes. "I'm going to go knick a newspaper. We need some more information about where the Order could be. Maybe I'll get lucky and come across a _Prophet_ ," he said as he strode towards the door. "I won't be gone long, okay?"

He did not wait for her to argue, and instead shut the door firmly behind him. The lock clicked tight from the outside, and she flopped down on the bed, beyond annoyed with him. She wasn't sure how to fix things between them, but she honestly wasn't sure if she wanted to right now. He was being a right arse to her, and she was frankly starting to wonder if it was the camping that was their problem or something more _._

Setting aside her frustration, she set off to the bathroom again and began to rummage through her bag for clothes. Catching her reflection in the mirror above the sink, she noticed the way her eyes seemed tired and abused from lack of sleep and the strain of reading in low light for too many hours. She was pleased, however, to see the harsh angle of her cheekbones had filled out some since leaving the Cottage—maybe those beans had not been all bad. She realized for the first time, that she looked and felt a bit like her old self again. Her work in creating charms and running arithmancy to find the Knights was not unlike the younger Hermione revising for her O.W.L.s, and she was reassured by the familiarity of the only slightly haggard and worn thin version she found of herself now.

She combed her fingers through her hair—snagging on the tangles as she went— in a poor attempt to get the knots out, but eventually she ended up just wrapping it up in a messy knot on the top of her head instead. When she walked back into the other room, something silver on the bed caught her eye—the Polyjuice flask.

George had not taken the flask with him.

"Oh, George, you idiot. Please don't get caught," she whispered to herself.

Hermione paced up and down the small room and adjoining bathroom, filled with anxiety. Every few passes, she stopped to look out of the open window into the street below, hoping to see George—or even better the brunet Polyjuiced version of him—walking in the hotel's direction.

Her watching was in vain; he did not return. It had been over an hour since he left her alone in the room. She had played their last interaction over and over in her head, and she was nearly positive that he had not stopped to take a swig from the flask before he left.

The stupid man was going to put her in an early grave for all of the stress he put her through lately, and she had half a mind to take a dose of the potion herself and go out to look for him. Visions of throttling her red-headed companion were interrupted when she heard the door to their room burst open and bang against the wall with a thwack.

George rushed into the room, eyes wide with alarm. "We have to get out of this town. I've been spotted."

"George, you prat! I can't believe you forgot the potion," Hermione lectured as he grabbed her arm, ready to Disapparate. "Wait, I don't have my bag."

She had just reached the bathroom sink when all hell broke loose. There were screams from outside, and the window panes rattled in their frames as a loud noise rang around them. The floor shook and Hermione hustled to the bedroom to find George, fear coursing through her body.

"Let's go," she screamed over the deafening noises.

George nodded as she grabbed his outstretched hand. He raised his wand to Apparate back to the Forest of Dean, but nothing happened. "I can't, they must have put up Anti-Apparition wards."

The sounds of glass breaking, stone crumbling, and wood splintering filled the air. Above all of it was the sickening sound of screams being cut short; Hermione was paralyzed in fear at what could be stopping the voices mid-scream. Something hit her shoulder, and Hermione reached over to collect what seemed to be small bits of plaster. Her eyes travelled upwards to a crack in the ceiling that was growing larger and larger by the second.

"Come on, we have got to get out of here!" George said, pulling her from her frozen stance and moving towards the door. Once in the corridor, the smoke assaulted her senses, not only blinding her for a moment, but making her gag with what she knew to be burning flesh.

The smoke was coming from below, but looking up she noticed the banister of the upper floor shaking dangerously. She looked to George who was also assessing the situation. Moving downstairs meant they would be greeted by chaos and possibly death. If they attempted to go up they had no way of getting off of the building, and it would make escape even more impossible with fire possibly consuming the building and the structure ready to collapse in on itself.

"Hermione, we have to go down. It's the only way out." Shaking his head, he began to pull her by her hand toward the stairs that led down.

"No, it's too risky." Hermione held her ground, curling her toes and leaning back as she ripped her hand away from his, giving him a scornful glare in defiance. She pulled her wand from her sleeve and turned her back on him, moving upwards. One step later, George shoved her to the side and against the wall as he stood protectively in front her, wand at the ready.

"Move over," she said as she pushed him away. "Are you a wizard or not? We can transfigure a parachute and fly our way out, but we are not going down there!"

"What's a parachute?" he asked, clearly confused.

"It's a cloth canopy that fills with air and allows a person or heavy object attached to it to descend slowly when dropped from the sky," she recited from the dictionary in her mind. "Though, we might have issues since we aren't up nearly high enough to adequately slow our descent . . . Perhaps a ladder might be better?"

"You're mental. This coming from the girl who is afraid of heights," he scoffed, grabbing her wrist and yanking her down a step.

She wrenched her wrist free and scowled at him. "I have ridden a dragon's back through Gringotts before, and I would do it again. This," she pointed at the steps below, "is completely barmy. You will be dead in an instant."

"We don't have time to argue about this. You're coming with me!" he insisted.

"You're right, we don't have time." Turning bruskly, she took the steps two at a time to race toward the upper floors, expecting George would have some sense and follow her.

He might have made the decisions for them for the past few months, but she was tired of watching the boys she cared for run head first into danger without considering the alternatives. There had to be a better way out of this mess than launching themselves straight into the fray.

Before she could make it to the next level, she heard a person from below yell above the din, "There he is!" She turned to look for George behind her, but her gaze was drawn to the landing above as it began to crack loudly. The posts collapsed away from the railing and rained down upon her. She ducked to avoid the debris, raising a quick Shield Charm to try to soften the blow, but the steps beneath her began to quake violently, and before she could cast anything additional, she was plunging through the air.

She fell hard and fast, her bones crunching as she collapsed onto damp earth. Two gulping breaths later, she hastily covered her head with her arm as the rest of the building followed her body in its descent, covering her completely and taking her consciousness with it.

* * *

 **A/N:  
** Pierrej92, thank you for encouraging us so much with your excitement for our story. Your reviews, messages, and general love have been just what we needed to make this chapter happen. This one is for you. Xoxox

Pierre writes an amazing Sirimione (Sirius x Hermione) called "The Time Traveling Wife". Please check it out and leave some love for her while you're there!

I was BOTWP, thank you for being our Alpha reader! Your insight to this story is invaluable. YOU make this story better for our amazing readers! YOU make us better writers!

Thank you to our many readers and reviewers. We have missed you all tremendously.

George singing about beans is credited to TheFifthBiscuit!


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